


the Short End of the Stick is the Sharpest

by kibblesnbits, perfectlymatchedpairofpests



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 1/6 didn't happen, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Attempted Murder, Cat Dream, Dehydration, Explosions, Family Dynamics, Flashbacks, Friends to Enemies, Gen, Insanity, Letters, Lullabies, Minecraft, Minecraft Manhunt, Minecraft politics, Near Death Experiences, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parenthood, Politics, Shakespeare exists in this universe roll with it, War, Worldbuilding through Lullabies, baby fundy is the real reason we wrote this, haha.... l'manburg.... you remember that place right, he's a literal cat shush with the catboy jokes, horses have terrible biological structure and that’s what makes them evolutionary enigmas, i’m fucking using my degree, loss of hearing, so schlatt didn’t take those letters well, take a shot at every hamilton reference, wink - Freeform, yeah you heard right we’re applying comparative politics to this block game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27067060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kibblesnbits/pseuds/kibblesnbits, https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlymatchedpairofpests/pseuds/perfectlymatchedpairofpests
Summary: [“What is he doing!?” The cloaked hunter dashed out of the forest followed by his companions. “Is he just giving up!?”The hunters quickly advanced on him with weapons drawn, closing in faster than he could count in his head. He huffed, a wide, sharp grin spreading across his face under his mask.Now or never.With the hunters nearly in arm’s reach, Dream took a half-step backwards, tipping two fingers to the top edge of his mask in a mocking salute. He fell and shifted, becoming smaller and lighter. By the time he reached the bottom of the ravine, he was a small bird, the brilliant green feathers of his plumage carrying him into the darkness of the ravine and out of sight.]In which the hunter becomes the hunted.
Relationships: (unless you count Wilbur's canonical dalliance with a fish), Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 174
Kudos: 935





	1. The Chase

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Run and Go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25388797) by [Numanum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Numanum/pseuds/Numanum). 



Bandaged feet hit the dirt path softly, the sound muffled. A figure dressed in dark green-- Dream-- breathed heavily as he sprinted, not sparing a look backwards. Not more than 10 feet behind him followed the clanging footsteps of armored feet. 

“You can’t run forever, Dream!” a voice called, and he grimaced. 

Feathers flew as his body became smaller, and an unfamiliar weight sat on his back. He fluttered to the branch of a spruce tree, and he felt himself in the air for a short moment, felt the weight of his choice leave his shoulders-- his form dissipated, and he scrambled onto a tree branch, temporary claws leaving scratch marks in the wood. 

His pursuers stopped their running in the clearing he disappeared out of, heads wildly whipping around as if he’d show up when they looked away just once. 

“He got away again!” A hunter, the one with the cloak that seemed to be made of pure shadows said, sharp teeth grinding together. He sheathed his sword, looking towards his two companions. 

“Not my fault,” another hunter, this one with the headband embroidered with a strange script, spoke up. His sword was kept out, iron glinting against the sunlight that filtered through the trees. “I was keeping up the rear.  _ George  _ is the one who should’ve been paying more attention.”

“You’re useless,” the hunter, who Dream could assume was ‘George’, shot back. Goggles hung around his neck lazily, bouncing as he searched the perimeter with fervor. 

The forest got loud at that. Birds chirped, singing songs that Dream wished he could join in on. Leaves rustled as squirrels chased bugs and falling acorns, the movement scattering sunlight on the grass.

That should be enough, Dream thought to himself, before he flung himself onto the next tree.

He grabbed onto each branch as he ascended, letting go with one arm and practically throwing himself a few feet to the next branch. The leaves rustled and crackled against the rough bark, and he frowned. That was… louder than he had hoped. 

“I can hear him!” the cloaked hunter’s head shot towards his location. Fuck. Abandoning all attempts at stealth, Dream tensed and jumped, sending a branch crashing to the undergrowth. If the hunters hadn’t heard him before, they definitely have now. He hit the trunk hard, wind knocked out of him as he scrambled up the branches and into the top canopy. There— about ten feet out was another tree. 

He leapt, not giving himself time to think about the drop, and grabbed firm hold of a branch twenty feet up. For a heart-stopping moment he dangled in mid-air, a sitting duck for the hunters’ arrows. Luckily for him, he thought with a grim smile, these particular hunters seemed to be ill-prepared. 

Dream swung outward, using his momentum to grab another branch, pulling himself to safety. With no time to look back and see how far he was ahead, he continued to swing. His arms shouldn’t tire out anytime soon, so he was good to go for at least a few minutes. Well, unless the hunters had fishing rods on them, but Dream had never seen someone use a fishing rod in combat since--

The hunter with goggles-- George, Dream reminded himself, groaned, grabbing the headbanded hunter by the arm and running towards his tree. “Really? Parkour!?”

“It’s not like he’s going to make it  _ easy  _ for us, what, you getting tired already?” George’s companion snorted, putting on a burst of speed. Huh. Competitive. 

Useful information.

“Shut it, Sapnap,” Dream filed the name (Sapnap, who names their kid  _ Sapnap _ ) in his mind, continuing to go. 

Preoccupied with the hunters’ banter, he wasn’t attentive enough to catch the next branch. Instead, his hand got stuck between two branches, and he yelped quietly. However, in a flash of fur and a quick maneuver, he continued on his way. Squirrels were good at climbing, weren’t they.

Some annoyingly cynical part of him laughed. Ironic, wasn’t it? his mind supplied, to be hunted once more?

_ A flash of fabric, and Dream was staring at the rug of an all-too-familiar room. His bandaged feet now wore heavy armor, and instead of a branch in his hands, he held a heavy iron sword. The glow of magic danced across its metal, but he would not stare anywhere but the floor. He should not. _

_ “I’ve heard rumors, Dream,” a patronizing voice filled the chamber. The clink of footsteps approached him slowly, right until there were golden boots in his eyeline.  _

_ He did not respond.  _

_ “From the townsfolk, you know how they gossip.” the voice continued. It was friendly, but with a biting undertone that made Dream feel small. Very small. “They say you’re planning on overthrowing me.” _

_ Still, Dream remained silent. He was trained better than that.  _

_ “Imagine my surprise,” the voice, no, the King chuckled darkly, tilting Dream’s head up with the blade of a sword. The only thing Dream could see-- the only thing Dream  _ wanted _ to see, was the King’s crown, the light glinting off of it making it seem like a broken halo. “The man I offered sanctuary to, betraying me.” The blade slid under the fragile skin of his throat and dug in at the King’s final words. Dream swallowed.  _

_ He heard the ‘shiink’ of the guards around him drawing their weapons. Sparing a glance to the right, he saw the Advisor, holding a hand out as a command. A short, sharp whistle sounded, followed by three long whistles. Cold iron advanced on all sides. _

_ “I’m a little offended, buddy.” _

Dream shook himself out of the past, hearing the hunters gaining on him. Left, right, left, right-- swinging was methodical. It helped him think. Deciding something, he let go of the current branch, landing on the ground with a thud. He began to run once more. 

Thanking his experience, Dream was able to dodge and weave his way through the forest as it got more and more dense. Leaves and branches stuck out, threatening to snag and rip at his clothes, but that hindrance was fixed with a quick shift. Cat, bird, squirrel-- you name it, anything was better than his original form when it came to navigation. 

As if to prove his point that two legs weren’t suited for a dense forest, he managed a glance backwards just as the hunters toppled over one another. One had run straight into a branch, knocking him backwards into his companion. The one with the headband flailed, grabbing the other’s black cloak and sending them both tumbling straight into the undergrowth with a loud, profane shout.

“He’s like an eel!” George cried, “A slimy, slippery little eel!” Now a good hundred yards ahead of them, Dream let out a bark of laughter. He’d never been an eel, but he could give it a shot at the next river.

Slowly, Dream watched the foliage begin to clear. The trees got thinner and thinner, bringing him to another clearing. It was much larger and eroded stone began to show through the yellowing grass. He skid to a stop right as the stone led to a sharp drop.

A ravine, he thought with a small smile. 

Thoughts racing, he stepped a bit closer to the edge, spinning on his heels to face the oncoming group. He doubled over panting, feigning exhaustion and letting his improvised staff droop from his grasp. Just a bit closer… 

“What is he doing!?” The cloaked hunter dashed out of the forest followed by his companions. “Is he just giving up!?”

The hunters quickly advanced on him with weapons drawn, closing in faster than he could count in his head. He huffed, a wide, sharp grin spreading across his face under his mask.

Now or never.

With the hunters nearly in arm’s reach, Dream took a half-step backwards, tipping two fingers to the top edge of his mask in a mocking salute. He fell and shifted, becoming smaller and lighter. By the time he reached the bottom of the ravine, he was a small bird, the brilliant green feathers of his plumage carrying him into the darkness of the ravine and out of sight.

“What the  _ hell _ —” someone yelped. Dream heard the high-pitched scream.  _ George _ , he thought.

“Where’d he go? Check the compass, check the—” Quick to react and quicker to regroup. Probably the cloaked hunter.

“He fucking jumped, Bad, he did his thing! The shift-ing animal thing, ugh,” A pebble whistled as it fell through the ravine. That was the third hunter— Sapnap, he reminded himself— which meant all of them were accounted for.

Birds couldn’t smile, but Dream allowed himself a victory chirp as he coasted. He shifted back and rolled to a stop in human form, sprawled out on the ground and wheezing. He felt rough wood planks under his back and far off in the gloom was what might have been the glint of metal. He was in a mineshaft. 

Mineshafts were not uncommon, at least when in the Capital. The King always had people strip-mining for precious veins of iron, gold, redstone. All the ores went to the royal treasury, of course, as only the King would allocate them properly for the good of the country. Or so the propaganda leaflets said. However, as you travelled further away from the Capital, they became scarce. 

When you  _ did  _ find a mineshaft outside of the Capital, they were dilapidated. Mold and vines crept up crumbling oak rafters supporting the tunnel roof , a contrast to the shining iron minecarts and regulation-width copper elevators of the King’s foundries. Undead and skeletons lurked around every corner, but then again, so did treasure. 

Apples gilded with gold that could heal you with a bite, books with spells to give your weapons an extra punch-- these treasures hidden in chests usually full of seeds and old bread were priceless.

So, Dream thought to himself as he ventured into the mineshaft, hunting for some of that treasure may be worth it in the long run. 

He whistled to himself as he walked down the creaking mineshafts, eyes slowly but surely adjusting to the light. No torches when you’re being hunted; he’d bet eight to one the hunters haven’t followed him down, but he can’t really afford to wager right now. It’s not pitch dark anyway. Nature has reclaimed the mineshaft and there are plenty of glowing berries on the vines to light his way. His melody trails behind him, a lilting, calm, hopeful thing. 

The wind shifted, echoing in a series of high-pitched clinks that resonate through the mineshaft. It’s damn creepy, Dream thought as he tucked the edge of his cloak around himself, gripping his staff more tightly. A spider leapt out at him from head height and he suppressed a shriek, batting it away with one firm backhand of his staff. It flew into a wall then fell into the cavern lake below the mineshaft out of sight. Wait. A spider, crawling up—? Dream peered ahead, squinting at the object the spider was climbing. It was an unopened chest stuck in a minecart. Dream cheered quietly. He brushed a thick layer of grime off of the chest, fingers pulling at the latch. It cracked open with a hiss of rusted metal. 

Inside lay a handful of torches, three pieces of iron, a few loaves of bread wrapped tightly in enchanted cloth to keep from spoiling and most wonderful of all, a  _ golden apple _ . He lifted this last find out of the chest, marvelling at its lustrous shine in the dull light of the mineshaft. Finally, his luck seemed to be looking up. 

Or maybe not. Dream looked left, then right. Gloom stretched in both directions, punctuated every ten feet by uniform oak beams. How did he get into this mineshaft again?

——————————

The moon was rising over the sky by the time he hobbled out of the mineshaft, huffing and puffing. His pack strung on his shoulder haphazardly, he leaned against a large spruce tree for support. 

“Stars, that was more tiring than expected,” he sighed, wincing at how gravelly his voice sounded. He’d have to get water from a river in the morning. Dream sneezed abruptly, blowing large clouds of dust off the green of his tunic and cloak, then whipped his head around to check if anyone had heard. 

No one there, except for a chicken, its white feathers puffed up as it waddled by him. It clucked and Dream nearly jumped out of his damn skin, his hands moving up to brace his staff before him. The chicken cocked its head, clucking softly and Dream could almost swear it was  _ laughing _ at him. “Shut up,” he grumbled at it. He could still feel adrenaline buzzing up and down his limbs like the fire of a strength potion. “Don’t look at me like that, you could’ve been a- oh, forget it.”

Now he’s talking to a chicken. Dream shook his head. Before he could continue running, he felt a large yawn coming on, and he stretched as he did so. Running all day wasn’t what he was used to. Sure, he did it before ‘enlisting’ in the King’s army, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a little rusty. 

Maybe here was a good place to call it a night. This area didn’t seem wholly dangerous to rest in, with large spruce trees growing over the crest of a hillside. He’d have the high ground and a good vantage point to see the hunters coming. And more importantly Dream was really tired. He shifted into a small green cat, bones crackling. He didn’t really feel like changing his cloak— fur, now. With a small meow and a disgruntled flick of his tail, he hopped up the tree, dodging leaves on his way up. 

Dream soon came to a stop at a flat-looking branch, curling up between the leaves. He heaved a sigh. Closing his eyes, he slowly drifted off to sleep, the forest going silent along with him. 

\------------ 

_ Our hero slumbers throughout the night _

_ To prepare to run from the sight _

_ Of three men dressed in magic _

_ His freedom gone, this tale turned tragic  _

  
  



	2. The Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Sapnap groaned. Dream scooted a little bit further away from him, wedging the torch between a crevice in the rock. He wasn’t afraid of the man, he didn’t think, but he wanted to put a little more distance between himself and the guy who, until a few minutes ago, was actively trying to murder him. At least with the torch casting flickering shadows of yellow light over them, he wouldn’t have to worry about undead trying to bite their heads off.
> 
> He fumbled at his belt for his axe, unlooping the weapon from where it had been tightly lashed to him and running a hand over the worn wooden handle. It wasn’t much, barely a sharpened wedge of stone, but it made him feel a bit safer against the hunters and their enchanted iron weapons. Sapnap scoffed, dark eyes tracking his movements.
> 
> The hunter lifted his arm gingerly. It looked broken from Dream’s vantage point, not that he was a cleric before or had any training beyond field medicine. “What d’you think I can do like this? Break off the bone and shank you with it?”]
> 
> In which friends can be found in the most unlikely places.

Dawn had barely spilt orange and pink light over the horizon when Dream awoke with a jolt in human form. The sun shone right in his eyes as he blinked awake, as if needed more shit to go wrong and he rubbed at them as he sat up slowly. 

While engaged in the by now routine task of neatly packing his gear into his bag, he glanced around the grassland. Seems like last night he had made it to the edge of the forest. Before him was a large plain, with tallgrass and shrubbery was dotted around the countryside. Dream pulled himself up to the tree’s canopy and squinted. There— off on the  _ very _ edge of the horizon was the faintest glimmer of a heat mirage and cacti, still framed in pre-dawn shadow. That was a desert nearby. 

He didn’t have much time to take in the scenery, however, and was startled into moving when he heard distant shouts. The hunters were closer. Dream cursed and dropped out of the tree silently, cushioning his impact with a roll. 

“Shit, already?” he grumbled to himself, looking around more desperately. No trees, no obvious hiding spots— nothing. Nothing but wide open plains for miles and miles on end, with no cover in sight. His mind raced, tossing out and discarding ideas rapid-fire— leading the hunters in a wide loop wouldn’t work, there weren’t enough natural obstacles and he  _ couldn’t _ go back towards the capital without the King personally waiting to strike his head off his shoulders. There wasn’t a river to carry him downstream and out of sight, and fighting the hunters head-on would be the stupidest idea he had had since— well, since he let himself be drafted into Schlatt’s service corps. Then, his eyes caught and held onto something. 

_ A horse _ . Thinking quickly, Dream tugged off his cloak, folding it as fast as he could and shoving it into his pack. With the cracking of bones and a soft huff, a green horse sat in his place. He grimaced in concentration, and with a further pop his mane rippled into a soft brown and white pattern, probably scaring the hell out of the other horses who had lived their entire lives without encountering a color-changing horse trotting towards them. The only obvious tell that it was him was a white splotch on his face, reminiscent of his mask. 

_ Just in time _ , he thought, pawing nervously at the grass as he watched the hunters break the treeline. 

“He’s gone again!” the cloaked hunter exclaimed. Dream, for the love of the End Mother, could not remember his name. Bad? Was that it? The man held out a compass (from what Dream could see). “It shouldn’t even be that hard to find him here but we keep  _ losing him _ !” 

“We have a compass, dumbass,” one hunter— Dream’s vision was shot to shit in this form, but he thought it was Sapnap— reached for the little piece of iron and redstone in his companion’s hands.

“Language!” Bad (he decided that sounded reasonable enough) huffed, jerking away and holding it out of reach. Sapnap jumped up. “Of course I know that, you muffinhead, but—”

“But what? It’s an enchanted compass, dude. It’s not gonna point to hell if you look at it wrong.”

“But he’s  _ Dream _ ,” George retorted, like that explained anything. “He’s that good and everyone from the King to your mom knows it.” Dream smiled.   
  


“The fuck was that about my mo—” Sapnap started to say something, but stopped

when his eyes met the horse about fifteen feet away. He blinked, and Dream blinked back.

Silence. 

“Found him,” Sapnap smiled widely, unsheathing his iron sword. Dream cursed to himself, turning and beginning to gallop. The hunter followed quickly (or as quickly as you can as a human chasing a horse) behind him.

“Sapnap--” Bad tried to grab at Sapnap as he ran off, but he barely missed. “We need a plan--”

George rolled his eyes, thumping Bad on the back. “The plan is to chase him! C’mon, he’s getting away.”

While running, Dream was reminded of how uncomfortable it was to be a horse. A cat, sure, he was used to that. Being agile and able to squeeze into small spaces in a target’s hideout was crucial to being a Hunter. But a  _ horse _ ? The bones were all wrong, and his neck was too long, and in the space between one breath and another he was running on two legs again. 

He was painfully reminded that he had yet to make himself good boots when he stepped on a particularly jagged rock, and he cursed. Loudly. 

“Hah!” Sapnap laughed loudly from behind him. He half-swiveled and reached behind his back like he was stringing a bow, causing the hunters to reel back. One of them hastily raised his shield. Dream grinned widely and flipped them off before swerving sharply to dart between two trees. Served them right; any good hunter— any hunter of  _ his _ caliber would have known if their target was carrying a ranged weapon. “Bad, did you know our little target here has a fuckin’ potty-mouth!?”

“Language,” the hooded hunter shot back, barely audible over Sapnap losing it. 

Over time, he managed to put a few more feet of distance between himself and the hunter. Before he could celebrate, however, he felt the soil beneath his feet begin to shift and crack. He only had a second to look back at the hunters before the floor beneath him crumbled, and he fell. 

He hit the ground with a rough thud. He was splayed flat on the ground, wheezing slightly as he slowly got to his feet. His chest ached, a side effect of falling flat on his back. Sparing a glance upwards, he saw the hole he fell through slowly beginning to get dug out by the hunters. Looking back down, there were two tunnel entrances leading down.

Weighing his options, he sighed, and headed down the tunnel on the right, holding his chest as he walked. Slowly, he began to hum.

_ Well this place is real _ , his voice echoed off the damp stone, eyes slowly adjusting the dimly lit tunnels.  _ you needn’t fret — _

Loud, metallic footsteps slam against the floor, followed by a shout of recognition, and he jumped. 

“Dammit George!” Sapnap said, and Dream then realized how close they had gotten without him noticing. No more singing on the run. 

Instead of the sharp 'Language' Dream had come to expect from the cloaked hunter, he was met with a sharp whistle. He blanched and stumbled hard, nearly tripping over an oak root. The hunters quickly rounded on him, but for some reason he couldn't move. 

_ One whistle means hold, two means advance, one short and one long means attack-- _ his mind was racing, and George got nearly within arm’s reach before he jerked back into action, surging forwards.

The hunters all glanced at each other, seemingly having a non-verbal conversation. George shrugged and as one they turned away from each other and continued the chase.

As they ran further into the cave, it grew wider, with Dream needing to dodge random pillars of mossy stone and low-hanging vines every foot or so. It wasn’t much of a problem. That is, until he hopped around another pillar, and nearly ran face-first into an almost violently electric green mob.

Dream stared at the creeper.

The creeper stared back. Green otherworldly light shined through its insides as it expanded with a sibilant hiss. He yelped and jabbed the creeper with his staff, managing to punt it a few feet backwards as he dashed forward as fast as possible. Whatever they were made of, creepers could level whole buildings with a few well-placed blasts, and Dream didn’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out.

The mob exploded with a shrill whine, the force of the blast throwing him against a wall. He managed to keep his footing, but just barely, and he bit back a cry as his right ankle hit the ground with an audible ‘crack’. Slowly, breath coming in harsh bursts and ankle throbbing with pain, Dream forced himself upright. Keep moving, that was all he had to do. Just keep moving. His eyes widened as he saw cracks widen in the ceiling and walls from where the explosive mob had detonated. 

The hunters, voices overlapping with eagerness of the hunt, unaware of the precarious ground, barreled forward. 

With a thunderous  _ boom _ , the cave’s ceiling collapsed between Dream and the hunters. He flung his arms up over his face instinctively, feeling small shards of glass and grit scratch his skin and worm their way under his mask. Despite the situation, he nearly smiled. The hunters were cut off from his position-- though the glee was short-lived, for under the rubble across from him was--

Sapnap. 

Rocks trembled as the hunter grunted with effort trying to push a slab of stone off his left arm. It’s not going to work, Dream could see that well enough; it would take multiple people to lift the stone, not one trapped hunter with only one functional arm. He looked away into the cave’s empty darkness. The cave stretched out in multiple directions, rugged pathways extending every which way into the gloom. He could make a run for it, he really could. By his estimates the hunter’s compatriots wouldn’t breach the wall for another twenty minutes or so, and in that time he could sneak down part of the cave and loop back to the surface. He’d be gone and out in the moonlight before anyone could catch up to him.

It was  _ really _ tempting, Dream vacillated, glancing from side to side and carefully keeping his weight off his ankle. From the hunter, whose headband was stained with a thin sheen of sweat from exertion, to the safety of darkness beyond. It was really, really tempting. He didn’t even owe anything to this— this Sapnap; the only reason why he’d got caught in the first place was that he’d run faster than his friends to catch Dream.

Oh, fuck it. Dream yanked the slab of stone upwards, arms shaking with the strain.  _ Go,  _ he motioned to the hunter, who promptly scrambled out from under it just as Dream let the rock fall with a crash. He hoisted the hunter’s good arm over his shoulders, pulling him away from the jagged rocks that made up the newly formed wall of this cavern. “How are you this heavy,” he grumbled, nearly slipping on the loose gravel. 

“Fuc’ you,” Sapnap mumbled, slurring his words. Dream was pretty sure he had a concussion or at the very least a nasty knock about the head from the cave-in. Or maybe these hunters were just that uncoordinated, he thought as he lugged Sapnap further up a narrow passageway and into a large side cavern. He sagged in Dream’s grip, and Dream seriously considered dumping him on the ground like a sack of wet potatoes. 

His ankle chose that exact moment to twang in agony and his leg buckled with it, sending both of them to the cavern floor in an undignified heap. Well. Looks like the choice was made for him. Dream rolled to one side and shoved the hunter off his rucksack, digging around inside it for a torch and the hunk of brown bread he was saving for later. Y’know, when he could catch some downtime from his daily schedule of running for his life.

Sapnap groaned. Dream scooted a little bit further away from him, wedging the torch between a crevice in the rock. He wasn’t afraid of the man, he didn’t think, but he wanted to put a little more distance between himself and the guy who, until a few minutes ago, was actively trying to murder him. At least with the torch casting flickering shadows of yellow light over them, he wouldn’t have to worry about undead trying to bite their heads off.

He fumbled at his belt for his axe, unlooping the weapon from where it had been tightly lashed to him and running a hand over the worn wooden handle. It wasn’t much, barely a sharpened wedge of stone, but it made him feel a bit safer against the hunters and their enchanted iron weapons. Sapnap scoffed, dark eyes tracking his movements.

The hunter lifted his arm gingerly. It looked broken from Dream’s vantage point, not that he was a cleric before or had any training beyond field medicine. “What d’you think I can do like this? Break off the bone and shank you with it?”

Surprising even himself, Dream wheezed at Sapnap’s words. He clutched his sides and laughed until he doubled over. Sapnap paused as if unsure how to proceed, then started laughing just as hard. It was a stupid joke, really stupid, but this whole situation was fucking stupid. 

He slumped backwards, breath coming in gasps. Stars, he didn’t think he’d laughed that hard in months. Still giggling slightly, Dream unwrapped half a loaf of dark brown bread, taking a massive bite out of it. What with the shapeshifting and the running, he hadn’t even noticed how hungry he felt.

A thought struck him as he glanced up at the other man— offer him some of it. It was only polite, right? The thought of manners  _ now _ was laughable, but maybe the hunter would convince his friends to give him a head start or something once the rockslide was cleared. Or a clean death. Now that was an appropriately morbid thought. He broke a piece off the untouched end of bread and held it out to Sapnap. 

The hunter startled, looking at the piece like it was an intricate puzzle. Maybe it was, maybe it was just an olive branch. Eventually, after a long tense moment, Sapnap reached across the space separating them and took the food. He turned it over in his hand, examining it like a jeweler at the market.

Dream coughed to break the silence, mock-offended. “I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” He held up his hands. “Hunter’s honor.”

“Nah, I didn’t think you did,” Sapnap replied around the bread in his mouth. “Thanks, dude.”

A moment of companionable quiet passed, both of them chewing, before the hunter broke it first. “Has anyone ever told’ya y’sound like a tea kettle?”

Dream thought for a moment. “Can’t say I’ve ever been told that, no.”

“Well, you do,” Sapnap nodded to himself, “like those old busted ones in the bakery near the castle. You ever been there?” He frowned. “You lived in the Capital, right?”

“Ah, the bakery,” Dream feigned a wistful sigh, almost dramatically, “best honeycakes in the country. The guy there used to give me free samples.”

“Tried to learn how to make ‘em once,” Sapnap sighed, “I’m… not th’ best baker. Bad can tell ya’ I once nearl’y blew up our kitchen back at th’ lodging. Turns ou’ good ol’ Gogy lef’ the gunpowder on th’ counter.”

Dream snorted. “I don’t think gunpowder goes into cake.”

“How w’s I s’posed to know!?” the hunter’s head swerved to face him, an almost  _ offended  _ look on his face. “it wasn’t labelled or anythin’! Jus’ layin’ on the table.”

“Reminds me of this idiot I caught back at the castle,” Dream said, wheezing a bit. “Caught the idiot with his hands  _ full  _ of pastries, n’ the kitchen all covered in slime.”

The hunter was quiet for a moment, then, he gasped.

“ _ That’s  _ where I met you!” he smiled brightly, “that-- hey! I’m  _ not  _ an idiot.” Sapnap scoffed. “That’s George.”

“You, a Hunter the king said was one of the top in the kingdom, was the idiot I caught sneaking out of the kitchen like a toddler?” Dream wheezed harder, cackling. “I can’t believe I didn’t say anything! You looked so stupid!”

“I take offense to that,” Sapnap turned his nose up, looking away from Dream a bit more. “At least you made sure I wasn’t in a  _ sticky situation _ .”

Dream paused. Did he just—

“Y’know- like, because of the slime- right-” 

“I get it,” Dream let out a sort of half-laugh, pressing a finger to his temple. “That joke was terrible, by the way.”

“I was hired to hunt you, not entertain you,” Sapnap stuck his tongue out at Dream, making a small ‘neh’ noise. 

“You were hired to ruin all my plans, you mean?” Dream said, “I should be so much further from the Capital right now, but  _ oh no,  _ the Great King Schlatt  _ had  _ to send the three idiots to make my day worse.”

Sapnap gestured to the large wall of rock, smirking. “Looks like you’re stuck between a  _ rock and a hard place _ .”

“Stop,” Dream groaned, chuckling a bit into his gloved hand, “it's so bad.”

Pushing a rock with his foot to let it roll, Sapnap looked back up. “C’mon, man, I’m-”   
  


“Don’t say it.”

“I’m on a  _ roll _ ,” the hunter burst out laughing, so very proud of himself. 

“Wow,” Dream began sarcastically, “just like Soot with these lines, very creative.”

“Soot?” Sapnap stopped his laughing fit slowly, chuckles still coming through in fits and pieces.

“Wilbur Soot, the revolutionary?” Dream cocked his head to one side, looking at Sapnap. “Though some consider him a folk hero, out in the farther villages.”

“Yeah, I know him.” Sapnap stared down at his hands. “Where I come from they called him a terrorist. Heh, that figures what with,” he waved his good hand, clearly trying to be tactful. “your charges n’ all.” He blinked, then verbally backpedaled. “Uh, not that I’m saying you are, it’s just—”

“Yeah,” Dream sighed, twisting the fabric of his cloak between his fingers. “Yeah, I get it.”

The silence that followed was tense. Dream quieted down, hand reaching his axe once more as he tugged on it nervously. 

It was so tense, in fact, that the two could soon hear the faint clang of…  _ something  _ from the other side of the caved-in rock. Sapnap’s head shot up, looking towards Dream. 

“Hey, you hear tha—” 

A chunk of andesite dislodged with a crash, and through the small crack in the wall overlapping voices of George and Bad trickled through.

“—napitus you bastard, are you there?”

Another voice, this one calmer. “Let him respond, you muffinhead! SAPNAP!” The wall shuddered, loose pebbles rolling down it as one of the hunters, probably Bad, smashed a pickaxe into it.

Dream felt himself grow pale, anxiety and adrenaline churning in his stomach. He jackknifed to his feet, one hand clutched tight around his pack and the other scooping up the hunter’s fallen sword where it lay by the nearest tunnel. The other man yelled in indignation. He didn’t pause to respond or listen, instead hitching his pack higher and focusing on taking even breaths as he put as much distance as possible between himself and the now  _ three _ hunters. 

_ I should’ve gone when I had the chance _ , he chided himself. 

In the distance, he could hear Bad begin to fuss over Sapnap, which either meant he had a bit more time to get further away from them, or that George was right behind him. 

“Dream!” right on cue, George called. His torch lit up the area Dream was running through. 

It was a perfect time for his ankle to act out again, its injury showing itself by sending a shock of pain through his leg. He bit down on his lip, trying to keep from yelping as he continued to run. He’d probably have bigger issues with it once the adrenaline wore off, but for now he just needed to get out. 

The cave tunnels were lined with jagged rock, small crevices from where poisonous spiders would have previously hid. The bandages on his feet were torn through, and he was once again reminded that he  _ needed _ new shoes. 

“Sapnap! Bad, hurry  _ up _ !” George shouted.

  
Dream took a right turn down another hallway, and after a few seconds of running some more, he found himself at the opening to a large drop. On the other side of the cave was a ledge, about a foot thick, but the gap was too large for Dream to attempt the jump without being desperate. 

“We’re-- way!” Bad’s voice filtered in and out. George’s torchlight shone into the tunnel Dream had gone down. He took a slow, shuffling step backwards, edging his way to the very edge of the drop. 

He… might have to start getting desperate, here. The drop was too deep for even Dream to see all the way down, and he didn’t want to take the bet of water being down there. 

“Here-- we’re here,” Dream groaned internally, seeing Bad show up right after George. Sapnap trailed behind them, holding his broken arm stiffly. 

“Welcome back, Sapnap,” George said, rolling his eyes. He tossed his friend a flask of a glowing pink potion, which Sapnap drank, exhaling in relief.  _ Shit _ , Dream thought, not without a touch of envy. _ They got regeneration _ .

George took one more careful step into the tunnel. Dream lurched backwards, feeling nothing but empty air at his back. He dropped down and off the cliff edge as the hunters moved forwards again, barely managing to fall out of sight as the hunters’ faces emerged out of the cavernous darkness.

“Where’d he go?” Bad exclaimed.  _ Now what?  _ Dream asked himself, heart pounding in his ears so loud he could swear the hunters could hear it too.  _ Now what the hell are you going to do? _

Cold, dusty wind whistled past his face as he grabbed onto any outcropping of rock he could find. And as he inched along the rock face, hanging by his hands and frantically searching for a crevice to sneak into, all he could think about was the hunter’s stupid joke. 

_ Stuck between a rock and a hard place, indeed.  _


	3. The Great Divide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [“Why didn’t you leave me?” Sapnap spoke first, stepping forwards. “Back in the cave. You coulda’ killed me right there, or left me to die. Why didn’t you?”
> 
> “Because I’m not a fucking monster,” Dream snarled. There was a soft ‘language’ from the group. 
> 
> “Fine, then,” Somehow, this answer satisfied the hunter. “You spared my life. Guess I owe you now.”]
> 
> In which a desert is not the only obstacle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [TW for Dehumanization, only happens in one line but just a heads up]

Dream clung to the ledge of the ravine, heart thudding in his throat, breath coming fast and shallow. It hurt. The rocks bit into the soft flesh of his palms, flinty sharp as he dangled there by his arms, but it paled in comparison to long stakeouts he’d endured in the past. He counted heartbeats as the clank of footsteps grew nearer, and the only thing he could think of was  _ just a little bit longer. _ He didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in the Nether in a close-quarters fight, but if he could wait them out… 

He heard a shuffle-step of someone tiptoeing towards his perch. Shit, they’re here. A second later Dream felt a shower of pebbles rain down, clattering against his mask and the stone below. Barely daring to breathe, he pressed himself against the rock face and waited as the hunters above gauged the ravine. 

“He couldn’t have just… disappeared, could he? Thrown a splash invis pot?” George peered warily down into the yawning cavern. The goggles pulled low over his face flashed with a deep purple glimmer.  _ Enchanted _ , and likely with night vision. Gritting his teeth against the way his muscles protested, Dream lunged a few feet to the left just fast enough to avoid the hunter’s eyeline.

“He c’n do tha’ shifty thing,” Sapnap hummed, “what else could he ‘ave done? Tha’ fall doesn’t look very frien’ly.”

“How deep even  _ is _ this?” 

In response, someone— probably the cloaked hunter— dropped a torch into the darkness. The torch fell for one, two, three seconds as it spiraled end over end and extinguished itself in a stream of water with a soft  _ plop _ . Fifty feet down, Dream thought, inching his way towards what might be a dip in the rock. 

“It’s like fifty, sixty feet down,” George remarked.

“Well,” Bad said, his fear of the drop coming through clear as day, “we know where he’s going. Let’s just head up and start going west. We’re bound to run into him at some point.”

The hunters grumbled in agreement, their voices fading as their footsteps echoed up the cave tunnel. The torchlight followed as well, plunging Dream into darkness. 

His breath left him in a rush, his arms almost going slack with relief. Slowly, ever-so-cautiously, he let go of the ledge he’s kept a death grip on and dropped the few feet onto a slightly larger outcropping of rock. He scooted around the cramped space, rubbing feeling back into his fingers as he searched for any divot in the wall that could signal a half-collapsed cave. 

Ignoring the slow pain in his hands, he began to feel around. After a few moments, his hand hit a small hole in the wall. Digging into the rock ever so slightly, Dream found it was a spider tunnel, a common sign of cave spider nests. 

Dream shifted slowly as to not lose his footing on the ledge, and a dark green colored spider replaced him in moments. He shuddered internally. Being a creature of the night was never fun, but being a spider was almost slightly  _ better  _ than the other alternatives. The six extra limbs and extra eyes, however, was not a perk, and he found himself stumbling at places. 

The cave was quiet, and that made the tunnels almost suffocating. The caves, at least, had the drip of water, the ambient sound of distant creatures shifting and groaning. In the tunnels, Dream was blocked from sound. That was, until he heard the hunters’ voices through the wall of his small tunnel.

_ Thin _ , he thought,  _ Good for predators. _

“So, Sapnap, what was he like?” Dream heard the cloaked hunter’s voice, his legs twitching at the closeness. 

“As terrifying as the King says?” George said soon after, sarcasm clear in his tone. 

Sapnap snorted. “Opp’sit. He’s a huge nerd.”

Dream heard nothing for a few seconds, before there was a small giggle. Probably George. 

“You mean the--” Bad started, before pausing. He started again after a moment, “did he seem like a guy who would plot to overthrow a kingdom? Or more like someone you’d knock over in the library.”

“Libr’y nerd, tho’h he’s too tall f’r me ta’ knock ‘im over,” Sapnap slurred, and one of the hunters hissed at his speech. 

Before he could hear anymore of the hunters’ conversation, the tunnel took a turn in, no doubt, the different direction of the hunters. Still, he followed the path, the voices getting quieter and quieter as he skittered along in the tunnels. 

He couldn’t help the giddy excitement that ran through him when he saw muted light from one end of the tunnel. Of course, it was night, but that meant the stars were out, and he was close to the surface. 

The spider tunnel opened up next to a rotting tree, and Dream merely ignored the smell of mold and grime in favor of simply taking in the surface. 

After a moment, he shifted back into his regular form, digging through his satchel to retrieve a roll of bandages. 

“Next time,” he said aloud, voice grating, “don’t fall onto the ledge with sharp rocks.”

He gave a humorless laugh, wrapping the bandages around the palms of his hands and  _ finally _ around his ruined ankle. The golden apple in his bag mocked him, but he refrained. Food and rest might not work as quickly, but he should be well enough to run as soon as possible.

Still, he sighed softly, standing slowly. His eyes traced the stars, and he didn’t need a compass to know he was heading in the right direction. 

West, onward. 

\-------- 

It didn’t take long for Dream to make it to the edge of the desert. The sand tickled his feet, cooling at the same time as the sun had yet to raise over the landscape. The hunters had either been so far behind that they hadn’t made it, or they were doing as they said in the ravine and heading west. Either way, he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the group, and he wanted it to stay that way. 

After about an hour of walking through the vast, sandy landscape, he ran into a problem. His canteen was out of water, and he had eaten the rest of his rations earlier on. He trudged on, however, the moon lighting his way. 

Dream only made it an hour before his legs and stomach began to protest at the travelling. His ankle screamed in anger, sending sharp spikes of pain throughout his leg. 

_ If I don’t find shelter soon, I’m dead meat _ , he thought grimly, glancing towards the skull of a cow who was unfortunate enough to wander into the desert. 

Before he could think any further, however, his eyes caught a pinprick of light in the distance. It flickered ever so slightly, and as Dream got closer he recognized figures in the distance.  _ People _ . 

He shifted into a cat, taking the time to remove his cloak and fold it up into his bag. This time, he was a light brown tabby cat, with green eyes and a white patch of fur on his neck and chest. This, of course, was accompanied by a patch of white fur on his face, blending in with the other patches. 

As he stalked ever closer, the voices that rang out into the desert were familiar. There was a loud laugh, accompanied by another and a call of ‘LANGUAGE’ and Dream’s suspicion was confirmed. The hunters had made themselves at home. 

Settled under a stack of rock, two leaning against each other and a few lining the outsides like a wall, was the group. The shelter the hunter group had found almost resembled a tent, with the way the rock was leaning against itself. Dream settled himself utop the boulder, hiding in a crevice where the rock met the other. On one side of their campfire sat Bad, a set of iron armor in his lap and a rag in the other. Opposite him sat the other two, Sapnap and George, engrossed in an arm wrestling match. 

_ Seems his arm was fixed up _ , Dream noted to himself.

“- So Skeppy says to me, he says--” Bad chuckled, bringing Dream into the tail end of a story, “ale’s well that ends well! And he just  _ chugs _ the pint.”

Sapnap, in the middle of an arm wrestling match with George, wheezed sharply. “The whole thing?”

“Yeah! It was his  _ 7th  _ that night!” Bad laughed harder, lightly slapping the armor in his lap. “If we had a mission that next day he would’ve quit right then and there.”

Before George could say anything, his hand was slammed against the rock the two hunters were using as a table. He cursed, sliding his leftover salmon to Sapnap. 

“How’d you win  _ again _ ?” George groaned.

“It’s all me,” Sapnap retorted, giddily picking up the plate he was offered. 

Dream shifted ever so slightly, half-listening to the hunters as he tried to see if anything of use was laying out in the open. 

A few feet of rope, some cooked fish… the armor the hunter was polishing was also there, but Dream was never one for heavy iron.

“How long has it been since he retired, anyway,” George asked, the thrashing Sapnap gave him forgotten, “feels like it’s been a while since I’ve seen him.” 

“Oh, just a few years now,” Bad waved a hand, “trains some upstart kids in the Capital. He’s a bit of a ruthless teacher, though.”

“Memb’r when he used t’ put slime blocks und’r th’ carpets in the lodgin’s so whenev’r people would try ‘n’ walk on ‘em their shoes would get stuck?” Sapnap said through a mouthful of salmon. 

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Bad chided, and Dream could get the feeling he was rolling his eyes under that hood. 

Dream felt his stomach rumble, a harsh reminder of his lack of food. He stood, stalking a bit further towards the hunter’s camp from his vantage point to get a better look. One misstep, however, and a few pebbles were sent tumbling down the side of the rock.

Almost instantly, the hunters were on edge. Bad jolted upwards, the armor clattering to the ground. Sapnap brandished his sword, jabbing it in Dream’s direction. 

It was quiet, for a moment, before George put a hand on Sapnap’s arm. A sharp long-short whistle sounded through the air and Dream had to force himself not to freeze up. Goggles flipped on, he pointed towards Dream. “Dude, no, it’s just a cat.”

“What’s a cat doing all the way out here?” Bad slowly lowered his guard, falling out of a fighting stance. 

“Maybe it’s just lost,” George shrugged, slowly sitting back down. He grabbed a stick from the side of the fire, a salmon still stuck on it. 

Dream’s stomach rumbled, probably loud enough to attract every creeper for a hundred yards. George stood up and held the stick out towards him. 

_ Well, it’s not like they know it’s me _ , Dream hummed and pounced on the salmon. 

“Stars!” George jumped back, taking the stick with him. Dream paid no mind, biting into the fish and relishing in the taste for a moment. 

“Just-- set it down, George,” Bad tried to keep a straight face as George flailed around, but Dream heard the hunter devolve into giggles. 

He was set down a bit after that, tearing into the salmon like a wild animal. Salmon wasn’t even a good fish, but here he was. 

“A hungry little guy, huh?” George commented, nudging Dream with his foot. Dream paid no mind, finishing off the cooked fish with a shake of his whiskers and a satisfied purr. 

“Think he’s thirsty?” Sapnap shook a canteen, and Dream’s head snapped towards the sound. Sapnap snorted. “Sounds like a yes, for me.” 

Dream, in the moment, after trudging through the desert with dwindling water and food, made a choice. As Sapnap poured a bit of the water into a small ceramic cup, he watched patiently. 

Dignity be damned, Dream meowed. It’s a strange feeling, for sure. The whistles of birds are hardly the same as this, but it’s for water. He’d do anything for water, right now. He’d take on the pink bastard from Hypixel again for some water.

“Here y’go,” Sapnap set the cup down, water sloshing on the ground as Dream practically shoved his face into the container. 

When he finished, he looked up at Sapnap and meowed a small thank you (not that the hunter understood a thing he was saying). 

“I think the lil’ guy’s just lost,” Bad said, moving forwards and scratching Dream on the head. Dream purred contentedly, angling his head upwards into the hunter’s hand. 

“Lost from where? ‘Cause I don’t see any fuckin’ houses anywhere close,” Sapnap joked, earning a ‘language’ from Bad and a snort from George.

“Wait- wait,” Bad’s face lit up, as he picked up a piece of the armor he was polishing and angled it towards the fire. Almost instantly, there was a small dot of light, and Dream’s eyes locked onto it just as fast.

He pounced, the light darting away last second. Again, he turned towards the dot, and began to chase it around the camp. He wiggled under bags, through rocks-- at this point, it was just instinctual. There was no acting there (unfortunately for his ego). 

In the midst of jumping around like a desert rabbit, Dream let himself relax ever so slightly. Despite his ruined ankle, bandaged hands and overall exhaustion, he felt an odd sort of peace wash over him. He twisted and turned, diving under bags and through the scattered rocks of the camp.

And then of  _ course _ he had to fuck it up.

A dot of light appeared a bit too close to the fire, and as he rushed forwards to bat at it, his paw grazed a red-hot ember. In an instant, Dream was back to his original form, hand pulled towards his chest as he hissed in pain. 

The reaction from the hunters was instantaneous. Another set of sharp whistles-- 

_ Prairie grass filled his vision, and he was wearing armor. His hands were clenched into fists at his side, and his head was facing straight forwards. Not to the commander. Never the commander. _

_ A sharp, long whistle sounded across the field, followed by two short whistles. Dream blanked. Which command was that again-  _

_ "Dream!" the commander snapped, and the slightly-relaxed position he took was gone as he practically slammed his arms to his side. Long and short means attention, right.  _

_ "It's alright, commander," a figure waved a hand, "we can't expect him to memorize it the second day." _

_ Dream pursed his lips, eyes still trained on the horizon.  _

_ "After all, it takes a few tries to train a dog." _

\-- he scrambled backwards, one foot hitting the side of the fire as he slammed into the boulder behind him. His hand still throbbed from the cuts and burns mottling it but he pulled his axe from his back and raised it warily as he sunk into a defensive stance. 

He watched the hunters share a look like they were having a conversation with just their eyes (with their significance, Dream wouldn’t be surprised that they had something like telepathy under their sleeves). 

“Why didn’t you leave me?” Sapnap spoke first, stepping forwards. “Back in the cave. You coulda’ killed me right there, or left me to die. Why didn’t you?”

“Because I’m not a fucking  _ monster _ ,” Dream snarled. There was a soft ‘language’ from the group. 

“Fine, then,” Somehow, this answer satisfied the hunter. “You spared my life. Guess I owe you now.”

“What!?” George’s head, followed by Bad’s, whipped towards Sapnap. 

“I’m just sayin’ he could stay here for the night, and we’d let ‘im run off a bit in the morning,” Sapnap continued, ignoring the reactions, “he would’ve just taken our shit overnight if he didn’t shift back.”

With another ‘language’ from the cloaked hunter, Bad sighed. “How do we know he won't just- kill us in our sleep? Go, like, ‘blaah’ or something.”

“Blaah?” George snorted, “I think it’d be more of a ‘roar’ sort of thing.” 

“You get the point!”

As the hunters devolved into bickering, Sapnap held out a hand. Dream hesitated, looking around the camp. When his eyes caught on a canteen, he made the second choice of the night. He shot out of his position, snatching the canteen and taking one look at the hunter’s camp.

He turned, and ran. 

Ran through the arrows of stray skeletons and the groans and grumbles of long-forgotten husks. Through the small cacti that littered the desert and the creepers that slowly ambled towards him. He only paused to take slow sips from the precious canteen until it drained dry and even then he was still moving, limbs jittering with barely-repressed anxiety, every instinct he had telling him to  _ movemovemove _ , put as much distance between himself and the hunters as possible. Dream stopped sprinting when the sun rose, and the moon sank low beneath the horizon as he headed west, but he still jogged, hood flipped upwards and tucked into his overshirt to provide scant protection against the sun’s harsh rays. 

He didn’t stop moving until he practically ran face-first into a jagged chunk of polished sandstone. His vision wavered, crumbling buildings overlapping each other in a confusing cacophony of white-yellow-tan shapes. Finally jolting to a halt in the doorway of a ruined temple, halfway buried in the sand but somehow so very  _ cool  _ inside, he stood stock still in the blissfully cool air inside. 

That is, until the shapes dancing before his eyes flickered once, twice, three times and his knees buckled, threatening to send him to the floor in a lanky green heap. He mumbled in a shaky voice from between cracked lips,

“Stars, not—” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah! that.. took a bit longer than expected, but ngl its a bit harder to write the bo-ring chapters when you want to get to the juicy bits. 
> 
> Giving another shoutout to Numanum, author of the fic this is inspired by (we heavily suggest you read The Run and Go its so good). They also have a server! 
> 
> Anyway, here's some fun stuffs! Dunno if you've picked up on it or not but the hunters use a whistle system which I (kibblesnbits) find ab-so-lute-ly fascinating! They're mostly used for scout trips and usually only utilize a whistle like referees use but here its more like birdsong if you're picking up what I'm putting down. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	4. Interlude: The President

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Nor have we been wanting in attentions to our former brethren. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, enemies in war, in peace friends.]
> 
> In which the seasons turn, turn, turn in a little village on the King’s frontiers; new friends are made and old ones lost.

“-- again…” Wilbur Soot sighed as he dropped the basket of tulips, spilling the multicolored flowers across the gravel-line pathway. He crouched down to scoop them up before they could blow away in the late spring breeze. 

“God, Wil,” a boy next to him chided sarcastically, tapping his foot, “stop droppin’ shit! Niki worked hard on gettin’ those picked n’ everything!”

“Stop shouting in the middle of the street, and maybe we’ll get somewhere,” Wilbur shot back, rolling his eyes. Eventually, the flowers were back in the basket, only a few missing petals. 

As the boy scoffed jokingly, Wilbur stood and lightly whacked him upside the head. “Let’s get a move on, Tommy. The fountain won’t decorate itself.”

The town was alight with chatter between people tying bundles of fresh flowers to doorways and stringing unlit lanterns between street lamps. It reminded him of fireflies strangely, in the way wind made them sway to and fro as the two walked through the streets. Some people waved hello at him and Tommy from the doorsteps of their houses and shops and he waved back. 

Eventually Tommy ran off, an excited boy wearing a green shirt with a bee patch carefully sewn onto his sleeve pulling him away. That was alright with Wilbur, he quite enjoyed walking the town streets on festival nights. 

It was luck, really, that he ended up in this small village, located on the outskirts of the King’s reign. While his friend decided to stay in the Capital, Wilbur was never one for the cramped alleyways and dingy, rundown buildings that pressed in on him from all sides. 

Here, he found peace. He found friends who let him worm his way into the village’s hearts, no longer known as the strange man and his younger brother who moved here after a disaster. No, he was known as Wilbur, the man you could go to for a song and dance, the man who slowly became the village’s leader. 

(A part of him wondered if Schlatt was feeling the same way in the Capital. Whether he missed Wilbur, whether he was happy maneuvering through the Palace’s cutthroat politics.)

He passed a few shops on his way to the center. A little bakery lit by candlelight, the small bell attached to the door ringing happily as another customer entered. Right next to it was a weapons shop, the jagged ‘Sparklez’ name painted on a wooden sign that Wilbur hit lightly with his hand. His favorite, the music shop, was lit with multi-colored lanterns on the inside, with instruments in the display cases practically smiling at him. He’d check it out later, though, his job today wasn’t to shop.

“Oh, Wilbur!” a man called from the shop, with green hair and skin and a golden helmet. “I’ve been meaning to give you something!”

“Sam!” Wilbur smiled, turning towards the shop. “I’ve got to take these to the fountain but--” he trailed off, “I’m always up for music stuff. Lay it on me.”

“I’ll be quick,” he pulled Wilbur inside, dodging under hanging lanterns in the front. He tugged Wilbur past the instrument stands at the front and splayed his arms out to gesture towards an open space. 

“You’ve been such a help around the shop,” Sam began, ducking behind a counter decorated in little music notes no doubt cut out and colored in by the village’s children. “Honestly aside from paying you, which I do, I should do something more to show my gratitude. Then, I remembered you left your guitar here.”

“Where is this going?” Wilbur was still smiling a bit, eyes tracing the shop’s shelves. 

“Here!” Sam pulled out Wilbur’s guitar, and his eyes widened. Along the back of the guitar was an intricate design drawn in different colors of paint, swirling and looping around the back of the wood. “I made sure it was thin enough so it wouldn’t affect the playing! If it does, I can take it to Sparklez and see if he can do something about it--”

“Thank you,” Wilbur rushed forwards, wrapping his arms around Sam in a tight hug. “This means a lot, Sam, really.”

“It’s nothing, Wilbur,” Sam set the guitar on a stand. “you run along and decorate and I’ll keep it safe here. Just come back for it later, okay?”

“Alright,” Wilbur nodded, pulling away and ignoring the slight stinging in his eyes. “Seeya after dark, Sam.”

He walked out, door jingling from a little bell attached to the top, and waved to Sam. He felt a bit warmer now, rolling up the sleeves of his yellow sweater.

“Watch out!” he just managed to dodge a few kids running through the streets, carrying makeshift wooden swords and chasing another that looked to be pretending to be a zombie. 

A woman stopped them, scolding the kids softly. She looked up at Wilbur apologetically, and waved a hand. Don’t worry about it. 

“It’s alright, miss,” he offered her a tulip, “I was worse when I was younger. Couldn’t go a day without getting in trouble with my dad.”

“Maybe they’ll turn out like you, then,” she pinched his cheek a bit, turning and walking after the kids. “Singing songs in the square and writing to the king!”

“We can only hope!” he laughed, heading back down the path. 

Those were not his destination, however, as he quickly came upon a fountain in a large open space. Perfect. 

In the center of the fountain was a crystalline shape with purple edges that reminded Wilbur of his father’s tales. Letters written in a forgotten language studied by Weaponsmiths and Armourers lined the edges, and Wilbur had yet to ask Sparklez what it said. 

He set his basket down on the edge, grabbing some twine from his coat pocket and tying a few tulips together. The fountain, previously simple quartz and iron, was soon decorated with small bouquets of tulips at each of the spouts. Wilbur took a step back, admiring his handiwork. 

“Fountain’s looking nice,” a deep voice sounded from behind him, startling Wilbur out of his stupor.

“Ah!” Wilbur yelped, spinning around. He came face-to-face with a slightly-grinning man with large, black sunglasses, “Eret, my friend, you need to stop sneaking up behind me like that.”

“Old habits die hard, Soot,” Eret hummed, shrugging. He peered over Wilbur’s shoulder at the fountain once more, nodding a bit in appreciation. 

“Cheers to that,” Wilbur snorted, turning back around. He paused, looking towards Eret. “Have you seen--”

“Yes,” Eret cut him off, holding up a hand, “down by the creek. She’s wearing that salmon-colored dress.”

Wilbur smiled, going to speak again, but was cut off once more. “-- the same one as the day you met, I know the story, Soot, you tell it every song night.”

“This town knows me too well,” Wilbur laughed, spinning on his heel and practically skipping down another road. He remembered to grab a bouquet of tulips from the basket as well, 

“And we’re happy to!” Eret called back, and Wilbur smiled to himself. “Remember, you’re with me for patrol tonight!”

What a town this was, Wilbur thought, eyes trailing the strung lights as he walked. 

Soon, on the outskirts of the little town, cobblestone and gravel gave way to grass. He continued on. The sound of rushing water filled his ears, and he smiled brightly when he caught sight of a woman in a salmon-colored dress waiting for him.

> Hey Schlatt,
> 
> I met a woman. Alright, alright, I know what you’d say. Well, when I say met, that’s not exactly true. We’ve known each other for a while now. She’s the most wonderful person, Schlatt, it’s like when she laughs, the whole world lights up in song to match her, as corny as that sounds. How are things going with you and Quackity? I’m so glad that you found someone that makes you happy as well, even if said happiness is over your decreased tax burden— do kings pay taxes? Anyway, it’s the little things.
> 
> This village is really fantastic. It’s so nice and peaceful. It’ll never be like our old valley, nothing would come close to the sunrises there, but I’m learning to love it here too. Tommy and I have met so many welcoming people; there’s Eret, which can mix a cocktail like nobody’s business, the Captain, who runs the blacksmith shop, Niki, the baker. And Sam, who I’ve been spending a lot of my time with actually, since he’s got a disk shop and music draws in more customers. Tommy likes it there too but that’s because he still thinks he can steal the disks without either of us noticing, the little gremlin. 
> 
> Life is good out here in the countryside, it really is. If you ever wanted to hang up your crown (not that I’m holding out hope for that), I’d love to have you out here. 
> 
> See you,  
>  Wilbur  
> 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The fields of the village Wilbur had come to call home were not as large as those from the Capital or, heck, even those from what remained of his last home, but they were lovely. The wind blew through prairie grasses gilded by the high summer sun, and the town’s fields of beetroots, of carrots and potatoes and melons and pumpkins sat in the tall grass as brightly colored patchwork squares amongst all the yellow. Bees from Tubbo’s beehives darted in and out of the fields, their buzzing harmonizing with the pastoral symphony. 

Wilbur whistled a little ditty as he knelt between trenches of potatoes, dirt-caked gloves carefully shaping the soil around each spud. He stopped, frowning, as he felt the soil. 

Weird, he hummed to himself, thought it was just watered. But no, the soil was bone-dry, sieving through his fingers like fine sand.

“This doesn’t feel quite right,” Wilbur waved a hand, beckoning someone over, “Niki, are you sure we used all of the water from the last rains?”

“And then some,” a woman with brown hair and blonde highlights knelt down besides him, patting the earth. She sighed, “I’ll have Sparklez send Tubbo and Tommy to the river, and we can change the irrigation routes, but I don’t know how much we can get from that.”

A few farmhands near the two grimaced as Niki stood back up and surveyed the fields. She looked tired, the bags under her eyes darker than usual. Wilbur patted her back gently, hastily taking off his gloves.

“I’m sure it’ll be enough,” he assured her. She gave him a weary smile. He huffed, satisfied, and turned to head back towards the barn. 

It was an old building, with acacia rafters that creaked and whistled with each summer thunderstorm and flaking green paint. The doors on the outside didn’t slide properly anymore, and there was a rusted bell just barely hanging from its roof. When Wilbur approached the barn, he saw a broad-shouldered man wearing red colored sunglasses, leaned against the side. He waved at Wilbur. 

“Ah, Sparklez, what can I do for you?” Wilbur waved back cheerily., “Just finished up my work.” 

The man-- Sparklez-- looked somber, standing upright. “Care to accompany me back to my shop? I need to discuss some royal business that just came up.”

“Aye, Captain,” Wilbur said, half-surprised at Sparklez’s words, “lead the way.”

The walk back to Sparklez’s shop was quick, the town’s small shops and houses passing by quickly as Wilbur began to ponder the man’s words. 

Regarding the King, eh? Wilbur followed the Captain into his shop, the door slowly closing behind them. Wonder what this’ll be about. 

A wave of dry heat slammed into Wilbur as he walked into the shop. All four forges were alight with flame, crackling merrily away on the far side of the building. Diamond pickaxes and chisels lined the walls, their wooden handles polished smooth with use, and on the opposite wall hung several sets of weapons. On the smithing table and workbench in the center of the room lay a netherite sword and an axe, both gleaming with lapis dust and etched with fresh enchantments. 

Tubbo sat at a table near just inside the shop’s doors, doodling something on a piece of parchment that seemed to have been torn from a map. Tommy was next to him, swinging a wooden sword around with wild abandon. Wilbur noted that his stance was getting better, smiling with pride. Looking up when the door closed, Tubbo brightened when he saw Sparklez walk in. 

“Dad! I was wondering when you’d get back,” Tubbo stood, running to wrap his arms around the Captain. Tommy looked over, grinning a ‘hello’ at him before returning to what Wilbur could charitably call practice but was more like flailing about with a sword.

“Well, duckling, I’ve got to talk to Wilbur about something,” Sparklez ruffled Tubbo’s hair. “could you and Tommy go outside for a bit?”

“Right! C’mon Tommy,” Tubbo nodded, grabbing the parchment off of the table along with the pencil he was using, “I’ve got this idea for a--” his voice cut off as the door closed behind the two, Tommy following quickly behind Tubbo. 

Wilbur chuckled at the two, turning to Sparklez. “So what was this about?”

“Council got word that taxes are up again, six-point-five percent, with the biggest increase towards the wheat harvest.” Sparklez said bluntly, mouth set in a grim line. “We didn’t want to say anything in public, what with how tired everyone is already. ”

“What!?” Wilbur shouted, then turned hastily to check the door for nosy sixteen year olds. He swiveled back to Sparklez, voice quieter but no less indignant. “For the love of the End Mother, does Schlatt not know there’s a drought?”

“That’s the problem,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “according to one of my buddies who’s in the Capital, it's about as bad as it is here. Riots, protests, you name it. The steelworkers’ guild threatened to walk out three days ago until the King mobilized ‘bout a hundred archers to get them back to work. He hasn’t made any announcements about famine relief, so people are starting to get desperate.”

“That…” Wilbur thought for a moment, his anger giving way to cool contemplation. “Hypixel offered their support, didn’t they? Or, well, that’s what my brother told me, and I tend to trust him.”

“Techno’s right, obviously,” Sparklez nodded. “According to the same friend of mine, Schlatt’s been dragging his feet.”

“Oh, how _great_. How’s the council going to handle this?”

“We… don’t know.” Sparklez admitted, moving to sit at his workbench against the wall, “We already know the King’s not going to be much help, and with what he’s doing to deserters…” he grimaced. “We can’t rely on help from other villages, since they don’t have much to spare either, or from deserters from the army.”

“Captain,” he said slowly, not bothering to soften his tone, “do I want to know what he plans to do to deserters?”

“Apparently, the council got word of him forming an… elite team of soldiers,” Sparklez explained, gesturing, “They’re exceptional hunters; they’re trained to capture and eliminate their targets. He calls them the Hunter Corps. Word has it he’s sending this team after deserters and possibly magic users.” He continued sarcastically, “Our great King, long may he reign, called the mass desertions a matter of national security.”

“Shit,” Wilbur grimaced, “I’ll see what I can do, Sparklez. At least I’ll try and talk some sense into him.”

“I hope you do, Soot,” Sparklez barked out a short, mirthless laugh. “I hope you do. At the bare minimum, we need enough food to tide us over until harvest. We can talk winter preparations later.”

There was a pause in the conversation, both men mulling over the unpleasant news. Wilbur sighed, shivering slightly from a draft. “See you later, Sparklez.”

“I’ll be at the l’il tyke’s birthday,” Sparklez waved a calloused hand in farewell, grabbing an grease-stained apron off of the workbench and tying it around his waist. “A month from now, right?”

“That’s the time!” Wilbur smiled slightly, waving at the Captain and walking out. 

“Tell Tubbo that he and Tommy can head back in,” Sparklez added, back already turned to Wilbur as he picked up a chunk of red-hot metal with a pair of tongs. 

Wilbur nodded and closed the door softly behind himself.

> Dear Schlatt,
> 
> How are you? How’s life in the big capital? I haven’t heard from you in a while, so I wanted to check in. Things are going well here, but I never knew a seasonal plains biome could get so hot in the summer. 
> 
> You always said I needed to take a break from songwriting, get some fresh air, now it’s my time to say the same. I know you’re very busy, I know running the nation is important, but Fundy’s birthday is next month and he just can’t wait. Did you get my invitation? Tubbo’s— that’s Tommy’s friend, he takes care of the bees— more excited than the birthday boy himself, he’s been doing all the decorating. I know Fundy would be so happy to have you here, and it’d only be for a day. He’s been practicing pronouncing your name (having mastered mine, Tommy’s and Techno’s) and I think he’ll finally get it one of these days. 
> 
> Speaking of life here on the wide open prairie, we’re struggling a bit with the drought. Niki— she’s the one that runs the bakery, I think I’ve mentioned her before, but I’ll do it again; her apple pies are positively mouthwatering— tells me that the crops are competing for water, and that’s why they’re disappointing. Or something like that, it’s farm stuff we never learned. Don’t worry about us, though, I’m sure when the weather turns we’ll be right as rain again. 
> 
> Though, the raised taxes aren’t helping much. The council here is putting on a brave face, I can see it, but we’ll have to pinch here and there to make up the increased sum. It would be a great help if you could send some more staple goods our way to tide us over until harvest.
> 
> Warm (too warm, if you ask me) regards,  
>  Wilbur  
> 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

That night the bar brimmed with laughter and ale. People banged on tables, clapping along to a duo playing a jaunty tune on a fiddle and mandolin. Eret, on bartending duty, washed glasses, occasionally emptying and refilling cups brought to them as they watched the dancing. 

The bar’s walls shook with merriment, of people stomping their feet on the wood floor and shouting to the ceiling. All the windows were flung open and passersby sung along as they walked by. A few brave children could be seen trying to sneak into the bar through said open windows, but were promptly stopped by a glowy-eyed bartender, who with a twitch of his eyes grabbed their shirts and gently floated them outside. 

“ _Two cans a’ beer a day, an’ that's yer bleedin’ lot!_ ” Wilbur led the bar in a riotous song, practically dancing across stools (much to Eret’s chagrin), “ _An’ now we’ve got an extra one, just ‘cause they stopped the Tot!_ ” 

“ _Jus’ get yer civvies ready for another fight abroad!_ ” the Captain bellowed, leaning against the bar. “ _A soldier’s just a soldier--_ ”

“ _Just like ‘e was before!_ ” the rest of the people in the bar joined in, loud cheering rising from everyone sounding out. 

Wilbur fell backwards onto the bar’s counter, narrowly avoiding falling ass over teakettle onto the floor. Eret yanked the cups off with a flash of their eyes before they could break, setting them down safely behind themself. They whacked Wilbur gently on his head with a dish towel. The man paid no mind, however, too busy doubled over laughing. 

“Here’s to another harvest!” The Captain raised his drink, followed by a round of shouts and many sloshed patrons and glasses. “The council wants to thank each and every one of you for the help this season!”

“Cheers to that!” a man with blue and red glasses started up another round of cheering, the people in the bar practically hollering. Sparklez held up a hand for quiet and the patrons settled down. 

“Now, everyone,” Wilbur huffed out a few more laughs, hauling himself up onto the counter gracelessly, “let’s not forget who led the whole damn thing! Niki, c’mere.”

Niki, sat on the bar near Eret, blushed. She stood, smoothing her shirt self-consciously before standing next to Wilbur, who had a wide smile. Wilbur grabbed her hand, holding it in the air, and the bar applauded. 

“It’s nothing, really,” Niki ducked her head with a quick smile. “We all put in a lot of effort.”

“You were in the fields from dawn ‘till dusk every day. If anyone deserves ‘nother round of applause, it's you,” Sparklez said, patting her back. 

“Oh,” Niki said simply, smiling softly, “I’m just glad to see us all here!”

“Another round for this town!” Wilbur cut in. “When I came here a few years ago, I couldn’t have imagined the warm welcome I got from this town. You helped me and my brother out when we were getting our feet back under us, and when my son was born…” he claps, “I don’t think I could’ve done it anywhere else.”

“You’ve been a good addition to the town, Soot,” a woman from a table near him called, “the kids at the school are always happy to see you.”

“Helping out at the shops, too!” Sam added, bouncing out of his seat, “I’m sure every shopkeeper here is lucky to have you, me included.”

“You were invaluable at harvest, Wilbur,” Niki said, clapping softly. “Even though we didn’t have as many crops this year.”

“Well, I for one, am just happy we had crops,” someone from the back grumbled. “The packages from the Capital barely made a dent in our problems.”

The mood in the tavern soured. Wilbur frowned, hands knitting together in his lap. 

“I tried what I could to get more,” Wilbur said, bitterly, “the King didn’t accept the deal from Hypixel until last minute, apparently, and Techno said his potato provinces were raided, so he couldn’t spare much else apart from what he offered Schlatt.” 

“It’s alright, Wil,” Niki said reassuringly, putting a hand on his arm, “you tried your best--”

“It wasn’t, Niki, it wasn’t good enough,” he groaned, “The taxes are up again and the Palace’s ideas of “help” are hunters who shoot first, ask questions never.” 

He looks down at his interlaced fingers, voice drifting. “Schlatt used to listen, you know? And now he’s out doing--” he gestured sharply, “-- this. Sometimes I wish we were kids again.”

“We don’t want hunters after us for dodging taxes,” Sparklez said, taking a final sip of his drink before tossing it behind him, to which Eret caught with ease. 

“It’s not like we can do anything,” Eret spoke up, tone somber. “The Capital’s getting worse, and it’s only a matter of time until the King’s lapdogs come snarling at our door.”

Wilbur stopped wringing his hands. His eyes grew wide, and if you looked hard enough, you would be able to see the gears start to turn. He stood up ramrod straight, practically launching himself across Eret’s newly cleaned glasses to grab a sheaf of crumpled parchment and a quill. He turned to the group, a wide, determined smile spreading across his face. 

“Maybe we can.”

A hush fell over the bar, everyone turning to look at Wilbur in a mix of confusion. 

“How, exactly, would we do that?” Sam spoke up, glancing around the tavern as a few people asked the same question. 

“It’s simple,” Wilbur starts, before pausing. “Well, not as simple as--” he stopped again, waving his hands. “It’s not simple.”

“Out with it!” a woman shouted, and Wilbur retaliated with an “I’m trying!” as he rushed to marshal his thoughts. 

“Our appeals didn’t work on Schlatt,” Wilbur started, testing each word before letting it free. He felt the gravity of the moment coalesce around him like a whirlpool, like the entire tavern was holding its breath. “because the King will never listen. Because he is loved by his court, and that’s all he gives a damn about, him and his power.”

Eret nodded. “But Schlatt is an honorable man,” they drawled, polishing a glass.

“That’s right. He won’t be swayed by a faraway village’s entreaties for help, not while his lackeys in the Capital are singing his praises and growing fat off of his collected taxes.” Wilbur jerked his head in recognition of the reference, pointing at Eret. 

“If Schlatt won’t listen to the people, then we will become our own!” he said finally, standing onto the bar counter, “Why should a remorseless tyrant in a far-off land control our livelihood? We can make our own Capital, where our words will not fall on the deaf ears of a dictator! Where our children-- where we can be sure our families will not go hungry each winter!”

After a few seconds, people in the bar began to nod along. A quiet murmur began as Wilbur continued. 

“The words of the people no longer have to be squashed by hunters that roam the streets with a bone-chilling glare!” Wilbur’s voice got slightly louder, projecting through the bar and spilling into the streets. “We can head West-- pack up everything we need and just leave this horrid kingdom and the squalor it puts us through! This is our shot to freedom! I say we spit on the king’s decrees, and carve our own freedom!”

Outside of the bar, townsfolk began to gather around the windows, the murmuring growing into boisterous cheering as Wilbur grabbed a full glass from the bar. 

“I may not live to see our glory, dear friends,” Wilbur raised his glass high into the air, “but I will gladly join the fight.” 

Sparklez raised his cup aside Wilbur, followed by Niki, and eventually, the rest of the tavern, their voices mingling in defiant shouts and hopeful cheers. 

“And when the folks in the Capital hear,” he continued, “when they hear of our trials, of our fight for freedom, of our _revolution_ —“ he shouted the last word, cup raised ever so slightly higher, “they’ll tell the story of tonight!”

> Sir,
> 
> Harvest went well. Despite the tax collectors who showed up at my doorstep flanked by half a dozen of the new ‘hunters’, which scared off some of the nearby children, it went well. We didn’t have enough to spare to fulfill a tax and supplement our own needs, but we will make do. As for the hunters, they truly do unnerve people. Can a person be hunted if their only crime is wanting to leave the army? Isn’t there a court system set up for that? It seems… nevermind. It seems unduly harsh, especially now when people are experiencing hardship.
> 
> Please don’t let your pride blind you to the realities facing your people. I don’t mean to press on something outside my authority, but I hear my neighbors trade worried whispers about not having enough food and fuel to last what looks to be a hard winter, and I can’t not make an appeal on their behalf. There are people in need of help, and as King you are uniquely situated to help them. 
> 
> Respectfully yours,  
>  Wilbur Soot  
> 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Wilbur felt warm, despite the constant snowfall that practically soaked up into his coat. Winter was a nice time of year in the village. He could see some kids’ snowmen standing tall in an open field, and people bundled up head-to-toe as they walked through the town. It wasn’t a bad time, though, and the townsfolk were as friendly and warm as always.

“Goodnight, Soot!” As if to prove his point, a woman waved at him as she walked past two kids trailing her like tightly wrapped ducklings, “Thanks for the help with classes today!” 

“It was no trouble,” Wilbur smiled, waving back, “I’m just glad to get home.”

“Ain’t that the Mother’s honest truth,” the woman agreed, blowing on her gloved hands to warm them. “See you tomorrow, Wilbur.” 

As he walked through the town, the amount of shops dwindled until it was only houses. The usual decorations that adorned the outsides of the townsfolk’s homes, however, were nowhere to be seen. Doormats had been cleaned up, and the normal wreaths and candles were packed away behind nailed-down boards shut tight against any icy winter winds. 

_Good,_ he mused, _they’re more prepared than the council thought._

Wilbur shook himself out of the thought, his thick leather boots carrying him to his own house. It was a small brick building, cozy with warm light spilling out from behind half-open wooden shutters and a thin column of smoke rising from its chimney. On its mailbox was an address, as well as a nameplate that read ‘Soot’ with a little pawprint on the metal. He grabbed the bundle of mail from inside, flipping through the letters before heading up the stone path. He frowned. Nothing from the Capital, not that anything… would have been expected. 

“Tubbo?” Wilbur closed his front door softly behind him. He brushed some snow off of his coat, hanging it up on a doorknob, “I’m back, you can go on home now.”

A loud crash greeted his words, followed by an even louder “big man’s back!”. Only a moment later, Tubbo emerged from a bedroom, Tommy right behind him. “Can Tommy come over tonight? I promise my dad agreed to it before I asked!”

“As long as he’s in lessons on time, I don’t see why not,” Wilbur shrugged. “Make sure you’ve got extra clothes, Tommy. And don’t forget your hat and scarf, it’s bloody freezing out there.”

“Already did that, dad,” Tommy stuck his tongue out, holding up a packed satchel. 

“Brother, not dad,” Wilbur snorted, “I’m allowed to call you a little shit.”

“More like ‘bother’— get it Wilbur— get it, ‘cause you’re bothering me, get it—” 

Wilbur laughed and managed to cuff the teen over the head before he and Tubbo were out of the house and into the snow, towards Sparklez’s. He watched as they half-ran, half stumbled through the snow, pelting each other with snowballs and shoving each other into drifts. Wilbur owed that man a drink or two, with how much he let Tommy hang out at their house.

“Oh! Tubbo,” he called outside before the two had completely disappeared, “I’ll get your pay tomorrow morning! Don’t let me forget!”

“Thanks, Wilbur!” Tubbo glanced backwards and Tommy took advantage of their momentary distraction to nail him in the face with a snowball. “Tommy— Toms, get back here—”

Wilbur shook his head, laughing to himself. After dropping the mail on the entryway’s table and hanging his beanie on the same handle as his coat, he headed further down the hall. He stopped at a door decorated with little handprints at the bottom and crayon scribbles on the wall. Looking closely, he saw a few of the scribbles were of a stick figure in a green and white bucket hat, a pink blob swathed in red crayon with a blue sword, a tall shape in a yellow sweater carrying a brown guitar-like circle, a red and white stick figure with two small discs, and finally— a tiny orange blob with pointed ears.

“Guess who’s back,” he whispered, poking his head around the door.. 

Sat on the rug in the middle of the room was a toddler with ginger hair and a fox tail, his fox ears twitching upwards as Wilbur walked in. The child smiled widely when Wilbur walked towards him even a bit, babbling about something as toddled forwards unsteadily, nearly pitching over as Wilbur caught his son just in time.

“Woah, there, Fundy,” he said, spinning around. “You’re gettin’ better at that, bud, but let’s not fall over again.”

Fundy babbled once more, small hands pulling inquisitively on the buttons on Wilbur’s shirt. “Da. Da.”

“Yes, I’m home,” Wilbur sat down into a wooden rocking chair, hearing the old oak wood creak as he leaned back, “were you good for Tubbo today?”

Fundy simply laughed, continuing to say ‘da’ as he pat Wilbur’s nose.

“I’m sure you were,” Wilbur laughed, nuzzling his nose into Fundy’s neck, earning giggles from the toddler, “sorry I stayed out later. I’m sure you’re sleepy, huh? A sleepy boy.”

Wilbur stood up again, moving over to the other side of the room. He put Fundy in a little bed, tucking him in with a plush stuffed pig and folding the edges of a hand-knit blanket around him to ward off the chill. He turned back around, grabbing a guitar off its hook that was dotted with little handprints and settled back down in the chair. 

Fundy, already drowsy from his busy day of playing with Tubbo and Tommy, yawned as Wilbur strummed the first chords.

“ _Goodnight to the sun,_ ” he sang, “ _hello to the moon._ ”

Snow fell peacefully outside, each flake twinkling down to earth and caught, just for a moment, in the lanterns’ glow. A few animals still skittered around the town, but most were hidden underneath the snow and in their own burrows. 

“ _The dawn of a day,_ ” he modulated the chord, shifting up a half-step into a brighter melody, “ _we hope to see soon._ ”

Fundy’s restless rustling slowly died down, his eyes drooping with coming sleep. His ears, as well, droop slightly, twitching ever so slightly at the lullaby. 

“ _But now, we sleep,_ ” Wilbur crooned, voice ever so soft, “ _as the Mother, so kind,_ ”

The strumming slowed down a bit, Fundy’s breaths evening out along with it. The snow outside had slowed as well, blanketing the grass and stone pathways with another thin layer of snowfall. Damn, Wilbur thought. Can’t get Tommy to shovel that tomorrow.

“ _Holds us close without weeping,_ ” he finished, smiling softly to himself as he sees Fundy’s chest rise and fall, “ _her own soft design._ ”

His voice drifted in the quiet, the last note hanging there like a promise. It was quiet, punctuated only by Fundy’s snoring and the pitter-patter of the cold outside kept at bay. The quiet of the house was enough for Wilbur. It was blissful, just the soft snores of his son and the familiar creaks of each worn floorboard ringing together in harmony. 

And like a guitar string screeching, reverberating with a high-pitched whine, like unwelcome syncopation kicking off the next movement of a piece, a scream shattered the tranquil night. It was piercing, a harsh wail of pain and terror that shook Wilbur to his very core and sank daggers of ice underneath his skin. 

He wrenched the shutters open, Fundy now wide awake and trembling on his bed. The snow outside was no longer lit with the soft glow of streetlights but the stark blaze of a conflagration, red and orange flames dancing up wooden buildings and licking greedily at exposed timbers. Wilbur cursed under his breath as he heard the pounding of panicked footsteps approach. Without thinking, he grabbed the nearest weapon— a small iron knife, more a tool than anything deadly— and braced himself in front of his son’s cot as the door slammed open.

Eret stood in the doorway, sword raised. Their glasses were cracked and dangling from an ear, revealing glowing white eyes wide with panic. He panted, clutching his right arm, and when he spoke Wilbur unfroze, strapping his guitar on his back and grabbing a swaddled Fundy close to his chest.

Eret’s voice was rushed and horrified, but he spoke what everyone knew was coming. What Wilbur knew would come, someday.

“ _He’s here._ ”

> Your Highness,
> 
> I hope this letter finds His Majesty in good spirits. A wise man once said the health of the monarch bolsters the health of the nation, and our beloved nation has fallen grievously ill. Despite our estrangement, I and those I speak for truly do not look on His Majesty spitefully. I have written only in the spirit of past friendship and the shared sunlit days of our youth to dissuade His Majesty a final time from the reckless, rapacious rampage he has set his heart on. 
> 
> His Majesty says I do not speak to him with the deference his title commands. With all due respect, His Majesty has grossly neglected his responsibility to his subjects, which overrides any breaches of politesse. Does he not hear the cries of his people crushed underfoot, or are they drowned out by the singing of loaded crossbows and cold netherite? Has he _bothered_ to listen? The chaos and bloodshed mere feet from the Royal Palace bear out the naked truth: that His Majesty shows no indication of hearing the people’s pleas for reprieve. Nor will he allow cooler heads to prevail. 
> 
> History will bear you out, Schlatt, as the villain of this story. It is a fate that neither your emeralds nor your crown will save you from. My only regret is not stopping you sooner.
> 
> Your obedient servant,  
>  Wilbur Soot  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the union! For the revolution! Rise up, everyone— here comes the General. You might've thought this was just a Dream Team manhunt story— SIKE we’re bringing in what will become L'Manburg, and a whole new cast of characters. 
> 
> If Wilbur's last letter to Schlatt sounded overly dramatic, it's because he's writing for the town now as its leader, as opposed to personal letters between friends. This is his version of the Declaration of Independence, his way of crossing the Rubicon. Also, he's a theater kid, dramatics are a given.
> 
> Wilbur's lullaby was written by kibblesnbits, and the song sung in the bar was an edited version of The Last Shanty by Derina Harvey Band. Again, thank you for reading, and hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	5. The Temple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [It was… eerie. Set Dream on edge. There were always books--
> 
> Clank. Footsteps amplified and sharpened by iron armor thud above him, halting directly above where he stood.. Dream froze. A sharp whistle cracked through the air and he didn’t need to listen twice; he picked up his pack and sprinted out of the library.
> 
> How did they catch up so quickly, he thought, panicked as he scrambled down the hallway, I ran for an entire day- how?]
> 
> In which sometimes you should not touch things that are not yours.

Dream opened his eyes to the same sandstone ceiling he passed out to. He had no idea how much time had passed but the lack of hunters’ voices could only be a good sign, right? Groaning, he stumbled to his feet. 

The room around him was cool, air slowly filtering through like a river, but carrying dust as well. Sunlight shone through a small hole directly into his eyes; he winced, ducking his head. Now still, he noticed a small hum resonating throughout the room. It was barely noticeable, and if he weren’t a magic user himself, it would’ve gone completely under his radar, but… it was there. The sensation was almost comforting, ghosting around his limbs like the embrace of an old friend. Runes lined the walls, so worn and scuffed that he couldn’t make out any words. Accompanying them were drawings and paintings of a winged creature, and as he ran gloved fingers over their intricate carvings, the meaning hit him. 

“A temple of the Mother,” Dream gasped softly, information flooding back from training and nights spent reading book after book in the castle libraries. 

Every temple held a freshwater source, refilled each night by its priests. They served as oases for animals and humans alike, a chain of safe havens for weary travellers. Some devout would make pilgrimages to far-off temples just to leave offerings to the Mother, but that tradition slowly halted with the rise of the new King. 

The End Mother wouldn’t mind if he borrowed some, would she? Surely not.

His resolve set, he headed into the temple on shaky legs. 

As he shuffled slowly through the temple, a small part of Dream wanted to sit and admire  _ everything _ . From the welcome chill that provided relief to the blazing heat outside, to the old wooden tables that sat scattered throughout the halls, he wanted to look at it all. Lain out on the old tables were snuffed candles next to diamonds and jewelry, with notes placed onto them. He leaned over them, squinting.

_ For our Mother, in her vast and immortal void _ , read one in a curly script, each letter inked on heavy parchment with care.  _ May she watch over us with her loving embrace _ , another supplicant had etched into birch wood. Beneath the prayer was a list of names— the person’s family and loved ones.

Dream wouldn’t consider himself the smartest soul in the King’s lands, but even he knew touching them would be a bad idea.

Fabric rustled softly. Dream’s head shot upwards, his pulse skyrocketing. “ _ Fuck,” _ he exhaled. Hanging above these piles of offerings were tapestries hand-woven in rich yarns of crimson, gold, ultramarine and purple. Despite their and the temple’s age, they looked almost brand-new. They were a bit worn around the corners, a bit faded with time, but looking far better than he would’ve expected.

One depicted a night sky with pin pricked gold thread to mimic starlight. The moon was embroidered with little eyes that watched over a village below, and Dream could almost feel the warm, comforting glow of its lights.

Another was the likeness of a man with wings dappled with the stars and sky. He reached out to the viewer with a staff embroidered with gold, a kind smile painstakingly picked out in minute stitches. Dream had never seen this man in his life but somehow, gazing upon his face, he felt oddly comforted. He sat, criss-crossed floating above a lush island flooded with water and coral reefs, and though he looked a bit out of place with his striped bucket hat and sandals, he fit oddly well on the tapestry. 

It was breathtakingly beautiful. It was rare to find religious iconography, even this far away from the King’s aggressively secular court. Dream sighed, wishing he could rest among the tapestries. 

Slowly trekking through the halls, he came upon a staircase that pointed downwards. Lanterns sat unlit on the banisters, following the old stairs as they spiraled. He glanced around, ducking under a cobweb before walking down. 

Here, bookshelves lined the walls. He ran his hand down the wood, looking around, but… somehow, there were no books left. Usually, temples had one or two, maybe one with an enchantment in it, but not here. 

  
It was… eerie. Set Dream on edge. There were  _ always  _ books--

_ Clank _ . Footsteps amplified and sharpened by iron armor thud above him, halting directly above where he stood.. Dream froze. A sharp whistle cracked through the air and he didn’t need to listen twice; he picked up his pack and sprinted out of the library.

_ How did they catch up so quickly _ , he thought, panicked as he scrambled down the hallway,  _ I ran for an entire day-  _ how _? _

His pace quickens, and he ignores the dull throb in his ankle as he stumbles down the endless passages.

It was only about a minute later that he entered the lowest room of the temple. The common water source found in most temples was gone, replaced by four chests around a weathered stone slab.

“Out of luck.” He grimaced, stepping gingerly over the pressure plate and digging through the first chest. There were enough explosives buried underneath the stone to blow him and his mask sky-high. He’d heard of some specially-trained hunters digging mines up to repurpose them as makeshift grenades, but only a madman would mess with stacks of TNT. Or one of the king’s redstone engineers.

To his utter delight, the chest contained an intact glass bottle full to the brim with clear water. He uncorked it, taking a large drink. Putting the top back on, he returned to digging. 

“Let’s see here,” he hummed to himself. He pulled out a bundle of string, looping it around the handle of his axe, some iron nuggets and—

_ Oh, thank the Mother _ . Dream’s eyes widened under his mask. His fingers ghosted over a leatherbound book that glowed otherworldly purple.  _ An enchanted book _ . 

He quickly rifled through the other three chests, fingers scraping their wooden depths and coming out coated with sand and gunpowder. There wasn’t much, just more string and another glass bottle of water. He stashed his finds hurriedly in his backpack before turning back to the book.

He was giddy as he flipped through the old book. It was written in High Cleric, and he was only able to read a word or two on it, but it was  _ enough _ . All he needed was a blacksmith out of the Kingdom and he would have  _ Sharpness _ \--

The moment is promptly squashed by the sounds of shouts from the hall outside the room.

“Oh, for  _ fuck’s  _ sake—” Dream’s mind raced. He was effectively trapped in this room, with the only way out past four fully-armored hunters wielding probably enchanted axes, the way how his luck had been trending. On the other hand, he had seven foot-long pieces of string, a chipped iron sword, and a book that was useless until he could find an anvil.

_ And a carpet of TNT buried right below all of them _ .

This was going to be the stupidest plan Dream had ever conceived, and that was saying something. He fished the golden apple from the mineshaft out of his bag, taking a single bite. He just needed to wait. 

The shouting crept closer, the familiar bickering from the hunters growing in volume as they approached the room. Dream crouched. 

“No-- dumbass, I said it was  _ this _ way--” the moment a headband poked through the doorway, he bit down on the apple, feeling its effects wash over his body. The hunters had no time to react as he stepped backwards onto the pressure plate. 

The hiss of TNT filled the room. 

“Dream!?” Sapnap shoved the other two bodily back into the hallway, throwing himself out of the blast radius and out of striking distance. He grinned, triumphant--

He was supposed to move, too. 

“Wait--” he stumbled back—

_ Boom _ .

The explosion flung him into crumbling sandstone, his world consumed by blinding white. Something painful went  _ snap _ in his chest, another mirroring it in his left leg— Dream screamed, the agony drowned out by a sonorous shockwave. He prayed to any deity that might be listening that his golden apple’s absorption had kicked in, and he thought it did; after all, he still felt relatively intact and not turned into a Dream-shish-kebab. 

  
A beat, then another. Dream tumbled to the ruined temple floor, his chest burning as he coughed out dust and debris. He couldn’t hear any of the hunters even if they were storming his location right there and now— stars, he couldn’t hear anything past a dull ringing seeded deep in his ears and pulsing at his temples. 

Silence rang through the temple’s wreckage.  _ Well _ , Dream groused through the sticky webbing in his head,  _ so much for gaining the Mother’s favor _ . 

With adrenaline draining from his veins, quickly being replaced by a bone crushing exhaustion, he slowly, painfully, shifted into a small tabby cat. He watched the hunters slowly come to, and before any of them could catch a glance of his form, he scampered out of the crumbling temple room. 

\----------------------

Dream emerged from the temple with rubble on his back and a sharp pain in his- well, everything. He felt like he’d been run over by a minecart, then a flock of vexes. There was a ringing in his ear, high pitched and humming as he trudged out of the ruined temple. Every step, every  _ breath  _ hurt, but he kept moving. He had to keep running.

It wasn’t long before he shifted again, fur melting back into skin and cloth, his mask secured firmly over his face. He would have let out a sigh of relief if it weren’t for his heavily aching ribs. 

“Fuck,” the word spilled out easily as he tried to collect himself, and where the sand of the desert slowly met the lusious green of the jungle, he had to catch himself from stumbling. 

The foliage of the jungle was thick, vines and roots littering the forest floor as he walked through. Every time his leg caught on one, however, he had to bite back from a yelp and continue on. 

“I-- him!” he blinked, shaking himself out of his thoughts as someone’s voice rang through the air. It was the hunters, no doubt about it. No one else would be in the jungle around this time. 

“-- can’t!” another hunter. 

“What-- fuck-- blind!?”

“Color-- hole!”

He sucked in a breath, picking up his pace. The warm, sticky air of the jungle wasn’t helpful either, drenching him and his clothes in sweat and water from the air. At one point, his hand hit an old, moldy sign sticking out from the ground, and he had hissed in pain. 

“He --- get far!” He couldn't identify the person shouting, but the rational part of him said it was a hunter. His ears were still ringing, and it had started up a dull throbbing in the side of his head. 

Desperately, he climbed up one of the shorter trees in the area, struggling to keep pressure off his broken leg. Still, he made it up, breathing heavily as he tried to steady himself.  _ Don’t fall.  _ It’s a long way down, a fall from this height would kill him slowly and by then the hunter’s blades would be a mercy— don’t fall.

“Up there!” Almost immediately, his moment of relief was shattered by the shouts of the hunters. Spoke too soon.

_ It’s nothing, just go _ .  _ Just  _ go _.  _ He shook his head, wincing immediately at the stab of pain it sent through his head and continued on. It hurt. Every step he took burned, but he had to keep moving. He couldn’t stop running, that much he knew. 

“Agh -- le-- too thick--” he spared a glance behind him, feeling his head almost move in slow motion to watch the hunters trip over the roots and leaves on the ground like he did. 

“D-- --- him go--” he watched the hunters warily, but felt cold horror bubble up when he saw Bad’s mouth move but only heard bits of what he was saying. He stumbled in his stride, panicking. 

_ Explosions cause… _ he cursed.  _ Fuck. I fucked up _ . 

Every green recruit in the King’s corps knew from word of mouth, from seeing him perform, that Dream, the great Hunter, had the best hearing. He laughed bitterly and soundlessly, running faster.  _ Had _ , he supposed. 

The hunters soon became caught in the hanging vines of the jungle’s upper canopy, their shouts dwindling behind him as he ran, lungs and leg screaming in protest. It took him almost a full minute of silent gasping breaths— too long, too damn long, what was wrong with him?— to realize that he couldn’t hear  _ anything _ in the forest. Maybe the loud crunch of a branch, but no birds. No birds, no rustling leaves--  _ nothing _ . 

He trudged forwards. 

The hunters couldn’t be close. The jungle was too thick to keep up with someone, he knew from experience, so maybe he could relax just a bit. His thoughts swirled around his head, and he allowed himself a deep breath. 

  
Bad idea.

His foot, the bad one, caught on a root. He clenched his jaw but wasn’t fast enough to suppress a strangled yell as he was sent tumbling down the side of the hill and into the river. 

He’s so tired. The cool water turned him onto his back, lazily floating him to the surface of the slow-flowing current of the river. His body ached, every breath sending creaks through his body. He didn’t have the energy to climb out of the water, and at least he was putting distance between himself and the hunters, so he simply laid there as he drifted along. 

The sun set and the jungle thinned out into a spruce woodland, damp cocoa traded for the smell of newly fallen pine needles. Something wavered in the distance, half a klick, a full kilometer away? His eyes barely caught onto it, heavy and hurting. He was tired, so very tired, but the chase was all he had, and the current pulled him in its direction as if by an invisible, perpetual string. Maybe whatever was out there would kill him before the hunters could. Maybe it would save him.

Black walls rose into the endless cloud cover, glowing by the last rays of fading daylight. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eek aah :] Here's the next chapter! Took... a bit longer than expected, in all honesty, but here it is! Gotta say, having a cowriter helps a ton though. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	6. The Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [On the edge of the field, like a pinprick in his vision, were large, black and imposing walls. They stretched out for a fair bit, marking something he did not know yet. He glanced upwards, the noon sun parting West towards the walls. 
> 
> If he could smile, he would.]
> 
> In which crossroads meet.

Dream’s eyes opened with a snap to the bright sunlight filtering through thick leaves, the smell of pine wafting through the air as he was floating down a river. The light stung and only served to add on to the already damning pain he felt himself to be in. 

The ringing was still present, almost a bit louder than before, and the muffled sounds around him had not cleared up in the slightest. If he strained his ears, he could vaguely hear the sounds of rushing water from the river, but the ringing never wavered. 

All in all, he felt as if he were run over by a damned minecart, which is an understatement considering he blew himself up and then proceeded to practically throw himself through a ringer. 

Slowly, he found himself washed up on a shore lined with spots of sand and loose dirt. It was almost peaceful, and he simply allowed himself to lay there for a moment. The peace does not last long, however, and he jerked upwards, eyes darting around. 

_ He was still being chased _ . 

“Dammit,” his voice was scratchy, muffled slightly as he grabbed his slightly-damp bag and started digging through it desperately. The only thing of use was a bit of stale bread. Dream struggled to his feet, wincing at the pain before eating the old bread. 

He glanced around the forest, on the lookout. The river was slow, but the forest was dense, so there was no telling how close the hunters had gotten-- there was a flash of black fabric further back into the woods. 

With that, Dream spun right around and ran the opposite direction, sparing a look upwards towards the sun to confirm his direction.  _ West _ , he confirmed, changing direction to the right ever so slightly to match up with the sun. 

With most of his residual energy, he slowly shifted into a green-colored dog, not enough time or energy to change the color. Mobility was key, and with this, he could hope to blend in slightly as well. 

Dream darted around the jungle with about as much grace as you would expect from a limping dog. Every few seconds he would have to slow down, and while it risked the hunters catching up, it gave him a few seconds of reprieve. 

He slowly came upon a fork, if you could call it that. Three ways he could go. A cave, with jagged rocks lining the edges and the haunting eyes of spiders being seen even from above. Opposite of the cave entrance was the face of a small mountain, which had the same sharp rocks on the side as the cave. The last choice lied in front of him, a field that stretched out of the biome itself. 

With his current condition, he sighed and continued forwards through the fields. The hunters might be able to catch up with him faster, but with his leg and lost hearing, he couldn’t risk a cave or mountain. 

On the edge of the field, like a pinprick in his vision, were large, black and imposing walls. They stretched out for a fair bit, marking something he did not know yet. He glanced upwards, the noon sun parting West towards the walls. 

If he could smile, he would. 

Part of him wished he could shift again, if only into a cat. The mobility the smaller creatures provided was unparalleled, and could allow him to hide better in the grass, but his lack of energy proved to work against him in that instance. He was stuck as a dog, unless he wanted to be back to his original form, stumbling around like an idiot. 

As he gets closer, the walls seem to stretch out further than he anticipated. In front of them are large, fenced-in areas, strange little boxes dotting the occasional fencepost and flowers growing luciously in the fields. 

He allowed himself to slow as his breathing grew heavier. 

\-----

The sun was warm against his ears, and Fundy liked the sun. 

He also liked the fields that sat outside of the big walls. He ran through the flowers with his arms open, mimicking an airplane as Tubbo followed behind him swiftly. Tubbo was cool. 

“Careful!” Tubbo chided, pulling him back before he ran right into a rose bush. “Those are pointy! Very- oh!” Tubbo let go, pointing towards the little bees flitting around the flowers. “They’re out!” 

He liked Tubbo. Tubbo showed him around the bee fields and made sure he could help out when he wanted. His dad did that too, but his dad’s job was a bit scary, so he didn’t like it as much. That doesn’t mean he didn’t like his dad, though! He loved his dad, the way he would pick him up and spin him around like a bird, and sing songs to him if he couldn’t sleep. 

Sometimes, his dad sings about his mom. It’s happy singing, Fundy thinks, but his dad starts crying sometimes and he has to give him his stuffed pig to make him feel better. He gave him the stuffed pig instead of the bunny because it reminded his dad about Uncle Techno, and Uncle Techno was really cool. 

“Those are a type called-- ” Tubbo’s oncoming rant was cut off by someone calling his name. It was probably Sparklez, and Fundy liked Sparklez, too. “Oh! Hold on a moment. Fundy-” He called, turning back to Fundy for a moment, “- stay right here, I’ll be back in a second.”

Tubbo stood, brushing loose pollen off of his pants and waving to Fundy before heading towards the entrance to the city, and Fundy was alone. 

Not really, though. There was the constant buzzing of working bees around him that he watched with laser focus. One split from the group, and Fundy ambled on behind it. 

He trailed off, further from the imposing walls and into the large field in front of the entrance. The bee was slow, but he didn’t mind. He really liked bees! His mama sung songs about them, or at least that’s what he can remember about her. He can also remember a pretty colored dress, the one that his dad sings about a lot. 

Really, he can’t remember much about anything from when he had his mama, the home he used to live in. His friend, Ranboo, says  _ he _ can’t remember much, but Fundy knows his memory’s not like Ranboo’s because  _ he  _ can remember where he put his sword last after practice. Ranboo has to write everything down with his crayons into a little notebook so he remembers, but Fundy just has to think really hard. 

It’s not that he misses his old home. He’s a big boy! He has a new home, and the other one he doesn’t know as well, so there’s no real point. He can only remember the nice smell of the grass, his mama singing while him and his dad played outside. Everyone always looks sad when he brings it up, too, so why should Fundy miss it?

The only part of his old home he misses is his mama. 

Fundy was pulled out of his thoughts by movement in the corner of his eyes. His head whips towards it, eyes widening when he sees-- 

“Dog!” a wide smile broke out on his face, rushing forwards. A dog! 

He paused in his running, glancing over the matted  _ green _ fur and broken leg, plus all the scratches. Maybe this dog wasn’t very normal. 

“Woah…” Fundy let out a soft gasp, getting a few feet closer. The dog looked up at him, eyes almost tired in a way. It didn’t growl, though, which was a lot different than the other dogs, or, wolves, as his dad had called him, that he’d seen in the woods before. His dad never let him get a dog because of it. He continued to stare, and the dog stared right back. 

He looked around to get a better idea of the animal, frowning when he saw it was scratched to all hell (don’t tell his dad he said that) and one of its legs was pulled up against its chest. 

Shuffling closer, Fundy holds out a hand to scratch the dog’s ear. At first, it shies away, ducking its head. However, with his gap-toothed smile and flicking ears, Fundy sits there, waiting. The dog slowly raises its head, stilling itself a moment after, allowing Fundy to scritch behind its ear. 

There’s a shout of his name, and Fundy’s head jerked towards it—

\--- 

Mother help them, how heavy  _ were _ potatoes? Eret huffed as they floated another crate of foodstuffs stamped with the charred imprint of a boar’s head onto the rickety wooden cart glow around the edges of the box dissipated as he released his concentration. They shifted their gaze to the next stubbornly immovable box, taking a deep breath and preparing to lift it. 

“Guys! Guys, I—” Tubbo sprinted to the docks, eyes wide. He panted, his hands gripping his trousers with a white-knuckled grip, “I think I lost Fundy! I was watching him, I swear, but ad called me and I had to—”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Eret tried to soothe the panicking teen, but their words were drowned out by Wilbur’s barked order for a search party.

_ Ever the worried father,  _ Eret hummed to themselves, the corners of their mouth twitching up. 

The group simply consisted of Eret, Wilbur, Niki and a few other townsfolk that offered their support, as well as Sparklez telling them he’d watch the gate, and they were off. Of course, Tommy and Tubbo followed quickly behind, like ducklings. 

Fundy was nowhere inside the walls of their town, nor was he tucked away in any nook or cranny they could search. Not even in the little tunnels that he and his friend would burrow into occasionally when they wished to hide from the day-to-day life of L’Manburg. 

“‘e’s really being sly, eh, Wil?” Tommy piped up from the back, “think he grabbed his- his little friend and ran off? Rundy- eh Wil, Run-dy.” 

Wilbur was not amused. He glared at his right hand man and Tommy, for once in his life, made a wise choice by shutting the hell up. Eret had to stifle laughter. 

The sun rose steadily higher in the cloudless blue sky as they searched, systemically clearing the crop fields in the west, the banks and reeds lining the river to the south, the shadowed pillager outposts dotting the northern valleys. If worse came to worst, if roving pillager bands  _ had _ taken Fundy, well… Wilbur had brothers in high places. Bloodthirsty ones.

All that was left was the apiary and the dye farm to the east. 

Of course, that was when the trouble began. 

They had gotten to the fenced-in area, with the beehives lining the top of the fence posts and bees buzzing happily along, when Eret spotted a peculiar head of hair with two fox ears bounding their way. 

“Fundy!” Tubbo shouted, worry finally leaving the teen’s system for the first time in the entire search ‘mission’ (if it could even be  _ called _ a mission). 

Fundy rushed forwards, dragging something behind them-- oh Stars, was that a  _ dog _ . 

Sure enough, behind the boy loped a skittish dog with a strange coloring. Its forest green fur was matted and tangled, sticking up in tufts with dried mud, and it bore a large white patch on its face. It looked  _ horrible _ , limping on one leg, the other covered in scratches. 

Eret paused, looking the animal up and down. It felt… familiar. They pushed the feeling aside, shaking out of their stupor. 

“Fundy!” Wilbur practically dove forwards, collecting his son in his arms. “Where did you  _ go _ !? You know you’re not supposed to leave without someone with you.”

“I know!” Fundy’s lower lip jutted out, bouncing slightly. He pointed excitedly towards the dog behind him, “But I found a dog! He was, uhm,” he searched for the word, glancing upwards in thought. Sparing a glance towards the dog, the general consensus was known: yeah, ouch. “I dunno the word.”

“It’s alright, bud,” Wilbur waved his hands in a gesture, letting out a soft laugh, “let’s get him help, yeah?”

He nodded towards Eret, and with a shrug, they took a cautious step forward, hand outstretched as to not spook it. The dog, however, had other plans. 

In a split second, the dog planted its limping leg in the dirt, fully intending to turn and run. The leg must’ve been broken, poor thing, Eret thought, because it whined pitifully. In a flash of fur and fabric, the dog collapsed nose first into the grass and-- poof!

A man clad in a green cloak and torn pants, his face covered by a white wooden mask, lay groaning on the soft grass in front of them. The smiley face of his mask completely covered his expression, but Eret got the impression that he was glaring at them. 

“What the--” Tommy’s eyes darted around, wide, before catching sight of Fundy, “- fu- fudge!?”

Chaos. The group erupted into a frenzy of overlapping voices. Some backed away warily, hands on the hilts of weapons; others edged slightly closer, if only to get a glimpse of what exactly had happened. 

“That’s… odd,” Eret said, adjusting their glasses. There was a moment where they felt something… stop. The heated glare of the figure on the ground was no more, meaning--

“He’s out,” they murmured, nudging Niki. She nodded, hands over her mouth.

After a moment to collect his composure at the shock of a shapeshifter, Wilbur sighed and set Fundy back on the ground. He tugged off his hand-sewn coat, calling Tommy over to help hoist the man up on a makeshift stretcher and carry him into L’Manburg.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Fundy asked timidly. He tugged on the hem of Eret’s skirt, ears flattened against his head in worry. 

“Of course,” they nodded, leaning down to run a soothing hand through Fundy’s soft fur. “Niki’s a good doctor, I’m sure he’ll be alright.” 

“Good,” Fundy said, still holding onto their skirt tightly. 

There’s a few seconds of silence, tense on Eret’s end, before Sparklez approaches, leaning down to Fundy’s height afterwards. 

“Hey, bud,” he waved “why don’t we head back to town, huh? Ranboo’s probably waiting to practice.”

Fundy gasped, completely forgetting the worry of the dog-turned-man and grabbing Sparklez hand as he led Fundy back into the walls. Eret smiled to themself, smoothing out their skirt and returning to the group. 

“Here,” he waved a hand, and the man’s body was outlined with a silvery light. Wilbur and Tommy lifted the body up faster, as if the man had lost all sense of gravity. 

They made it to the medical tent quickly with that, Wilbur and Tommy ducking under the flaps to shuffle the man in. 

“Now, go mess around with Tubbo,” Wilbur shooed Tommy away, and the teen only grumbled a bit under his breath before heading off. 

“So, what’s the deal with our little friend,” Eret asked, shrugging off their cloak and hanging it at the entrance to the tent. 

“Not so little,” Wilbur said, laughing humorlessly. He pulled his hand to his chin, thinking, “that trick he pulled…” He shook his head, “no matter. Let’s--” 

There were shouts outside. The sound of clanging armor and someone calling another a  _ muffinhead _ ? 

“Wil!” Tommy ran back as quickly as he had left, gesturing wildly, “Wil! There’s these- these dickheads outside! Sam is dealing with them but- they’re hunters, Wil, real bad news, big man.”

Leaning over, Eret poked their head out of the tent flap, scanning the area. About a hundred feet away, Sam stood before three people, who were all being cuffed by a guard. Sam was talking quickly, and his expression grew more concerned with every answer they gave. 

Focusing for a moment, Eret zeroed in on their… accessories. One had a headband, another, a pair of goggles, and the last, a cloak. Their eyes narrowed at the residual magic on each object. Enchantments. 

“I’ll… deal with that in a minute, Tommy,” Wilbur said, his brow furrowed. He raked a hand over his face, sighing deeply. “Tell Sam he can lock them up, Tommy, tell him to put them in a room with a guard until I finish dealing with this.”

Tommy nodded, throwing a final, worried look at the unconscious man on the bed before running off to Sam. 

With that taken care of, Eret and Wilbur turned back to the situation at hand. 

  
Inside the tent, Niki bustled around worriedly. She pulled bandages and a few diluted potions off of the shelves to set them next to the bed, and dug out a bag of medical tools from a drawer beneath the potions shelf. 

With the silence, the sound of the man’s breathing slowly filtered through. It was labored, each shuddering breath filling the room with a painful crescendo. 

She rolled up his pant legs, examining both the broken leg and twisted ankle with as much focus as you would expect from a cleric. She grimaced, setting tapping her finger on the side of the bed in thought. 

“He’s going to need a few doses,” Niki said slowly. “but we’ll have to set the bone first. He’s lucky we found him before the leg healed enough that we’d need to re-break it.” 

“But he’ll be alright?”

“I think so,” Niki smiled, grabbing a watered down health potion and reaching for the man’s strange, white mask. “Whoever he is, he’s been running for a while. There are a  _ lot _ of old injuries here, but they look well taken care of.”

With a pair of sterilized tweezers, Niki worked quickly to pry off pieces of the man’s bloodstained mask. As she removed each shard of wood, more of the man’s face was exposed like revealing a patchwork tapestry. Previously covered freckled skin was littered with cuts, both large and small, and a large scar that ran diagonal from his eyebrow to the corner of his lips. It was a uniform cut, like that of an axe the slash of a sword, but it looked gnarly. 

However, right on his cheekbone, plain as day, was a brand. It was burned with the ire of a despot and unforgiving red iron— a stylized ‘S’ was charred onto the man’s face.

“Oh!” Niki gasped, horrified. The health potion slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, only saved from shattering by the med tent’s thick canvas floor. Her hands flew up to cup her mouth, muffling a choked sob. She took a step backwards, nearly slipping on the bottle beneath her. 

Wilbur’s jaw clenched, eyes growing stern and… the President pulled Niki aside, not saying a thing to Eret. 

Eret sighed, wringing their hands. They took a step forwards, leaning over the man on the bed and adjusting their glasses before reaching out a gloved hand. Setting it on his head, they took a deep breath, letting their magic reach out. 

_ Familiar, familiar, familiar, _ they thought, closed eyes dulling as they searched,  _ almost like… there! _

Eret nearly gasps at the energy. The energy in their veins thrums, harmonizing with this stranger’s magic. The man was a magic user, but not the kind that could be learned by word of mouth of studying for years on end. This was the same as their own, the inherent power they had grown up similar to this man’s. 

_ The shapeshifting!  _ Their eyebrows rose, letting out a small noise of understanding. No wonder the man had felt familiar to them, he had used a similar type of magic to them. 

Tension bled out of Eret’s shoulders as they let their magic wash over the man. As a patina of white flowed over him, the scrapes, cuts and bruises faded from his skin. The creases on his forehead disappeared as his face grew more relaxed, and the man fell into a methodic sleep. 

Straightening up, they clapped their hands behind their back. Eret turned around, heels clicking as they adjusted their glasses and tuned back into the conversation. The tail end of an argument could be heard, though Eret had missed the details while healing the man on the bed.

“Soot,” They broke back into the conversation, glasses flashing with their own magic. Eret strode purposefully to the arguing pair, placing themselves between Niki and their President. 

“Eret,” the President’s head snapped towards them, eyes narrowing. 

“I'd like that my own be protected for the time being," they tilted their head, letting white eyes stare firmly into the President’s own, "There aren't many of us left, you know. You can interrogate him all you like later, but let him heal.” 

The soft sounds of slightly-pained breathing were still present in the room, Eret’s magic only serving to sooth the smaller injuries. Wilbur held their gaze, the silence speaking loudly where words could not. His fists were clenched, his body language brimming with distrust. 

Eventually, he relented, nodding tersely. 

“For now.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while :') apologies but... yeah! L'Manburg :]
> 
> What do you mean there was no war on DSMP everything is fine nothing went wrong. Well, whatever. 
> 
> Moral of the story: these are our favorite chapters to write. The L'manburg ones. Thanks for reading!


	7. The Hunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [“You’re such a muffinhead, Sapnap,” the cloaked one shook his head, the red and black outfit being replaced by a regular, unenchanted grey. “Have you ever been arrested before?” 
> 
> “Wait--” the hunter in the blue shirt spoke up, no longer wearing his white-and-black glasses, “Bad, you- you’ve been arrested!?” 
> 
> The cloaked hunter-- now known as Bad-- seemed to pause. “I don’t think I meant to say that.” 
> 
> “Well, c’mon,” headband, or, Sapnap leaned forward in his chair, “Now you have to tell us. Come on. I told you how I got stuck in the floor that one time.”]
> 
> In which a country is alive once more.

L’Manburg was alive, her song resounding through her walls.

Through hushed whispers and low tones, townsfolk gossiped. They did so often, about the rain spell that had washed away all but four of Dan’s horses, and how Sam’s latest gadget had blown up in his face, leaving him covered head to toe in ash except for two raccoon-like circles around his eyes and that time Niki had heard their President stagger home at some ungodly hour from the tavern, warbling unintelligibly at the top of his lungs— but this time, it was different. This time, the words flying hushed and rapidfire between L’Manburg’s citizens in her bustling streets were cagey, curious, almost alarmed.

These whispers that weaved their way through the town were about a strange wolf, one that could shift forms with the snap of its fingers. Gossip about three hunters that had appeared right after had surfaced, and the town rattled like a chain smoker when each rumor got more and more… absurd. 

“I heard it was one of the Prophets,” remarked a woman in hushed, almost reverent tones. Her practiced hands flew over the spinning jenny, weaving thin lines of gold into deep blue fabric. She held up the half-finished shirt for perusal, continuing, “sent to us by our Mother. How else would it be able to change forms?”

“I heard it was someone like— similar to Eret, and their ability,” said another in a floral green-and-yellow headscarf. She sat amongst the craftspeople, twisting and turning the fibers of an intricate flaxen basket. It would fetch a pretty penny at Lyve’s faraway ocean markets; regardless of the political strife between the two countries, goods were goods. “an escaped shifter.”

“Could it be Fundy’s- Fundy’s mom?” piped a high-pitched voice besides them. The women were quick to shush its owner, a child who had wandered close. His head tilted to one side in curiosity and he clutched a threadbare stuffed duck. 

“We don’t gossip about the departed, dear,” One of the women finally spoke up, voice solemn and face overcast. Her neighbor makes a fleeting sign— of remembrance— over her heart. “I don’t think it was Sally. Now run along, find your sister.”

“Oh,” The child nodded, black and white hair falling messily in his eyes. His voice cracked and he flushed a deep purple. “Which- which way was the bakery again?”

The women laughed affectionately, dour mood forgotten, and pointed him in the direction of a stout brick building spewing a lazy plume of white smoke, nestled between the tailor’s and the blacksmith’s shops. He smiled at the point just above their eyes, dimples showing on his two-toned face, and gave an awkward little bow. 

“Thank you!” The child waved goodbye, turning on his heel and heading towards the bakery. 

“Lovely kid, isn’t he?” said the first woman, swapping out the shimmering gold thread for a fresh spool of white.

“Shame about his memory,” commented her friend. She set down her basket, shaking out arms cramped by work and looked around furtively. “Now, more about why you think this shifter’s a Prophet.”

L’Manburg was alive, and so were her rumors. 

“He’s finally found us, it seems,” a farmhand said, voice shaking as he leaned on his hoe. The sun, white and relentless in the midday heat, beat down on the pair. “But why would the King only send three?”

“I reckon he’s after that white-eyed mage,” his partner shook their head, huffing. They set a crate of seed bags stamped with a gold  _ H _ near the wagon. “All we know, that blasted decree could still be in order. ‘Sides, if he knew where we were, I bet five gold that we’d have an army breaking down our doors.”

“But--” the first farmhand, before being cut off by the second. 

“Listen,” they tipped their hat, winking reassuringly, “at least they’re in the cells.”

“That’s one less thing to worry about,” the first murmured. He swung the hoe high above his head, jamming it into the sun-yellowed hay with a loud grunt.

“One less thing to worry about.”

\--------------

“Ugh,” the previous headband-wearing (they couldn’t have hunters with  _ enchanted items _ , now could they) hunter’s voice was grating on Wilbur’s ears, like digging fingers into his brain. “When are we getting  _ out _ .” 

“You’re such a muffinhead, Sapnap,” the cloaked one shook his head, the red and black outfit being replaced by a regular, unenchanted grey. “Have you ever  _ been  _ arrested before?” 

“Wait--” the hunter in the blue shirt spoke up, no longer wearing his white-and-black glasses, “Bad, you- you’ve been  _ arrested _ !?” 

The cloaked hunter-- now known as Bad-- seemed to pause. “I don’t think I meant to say that.” 

“Well, c’mon,” headband, or, Sapnap leaned forward in his chair, “Now you  _ have _ to tell us. Come  _ on _ . I told you how I got stuck in the floor that one time.” 

“That was the floor, Sapnap, not jail,” Bad said, “I-- George, back me up, it’s just a boring story.”

“I dunno, Bad,” blue- George, smirked, “I’ve never heard this wonderful story. Tell us, how  _ did  _ you get arrested--”

“By being in cahoots with the king, I’d say,” Wilbur spoke up from behind the iron bars, hands folded behind his back. 

“Stars!” Sapnap yelped, falling backwards in his seat, “Hows’about some kind of warning, soldier boy?”

“That’s Mister President to you, sir,” Wilbur bit back. 

The hunters shared an alarmed look, very clearly not expecting the leader of the country they had unceremoniously crashed into to show up at their jail cell.

“Usually, I wouldn’t be interrogating you,” he stated bluntly, taking a seat right outside the cell in a rickety old wood chair. “However, our usual is--”  _ watching over a threat _ , “-- ensuring your little  _ friend _ , the shapeshifter, is still alive. If I were you, and I thank the Mother I’m not, I’d be grateful.” 

Wholly against the excellent advice Wilbur was offering them, the hunters did not look grateful. In fact, they looked almost  _ guilty _ , but not the familiar guilt Wilbur and others had felt about a friend, or about someone they cared for being hurt. 

“We’re not- he’s not our  _ friend _ ,” Sapnap said, hesitant. “He’s our quarry.”

“So you  _ are  _ hunters,” Wilbur exhaled with the self-satisfied air of someone who had a theory confirmed. He clenched and unclenched his hands in the fabric of his uniform coat, ignoring the way they trembled, and settled for narrowing his eyes in the way his mother had taught him.

By the looks of it, it worked. “You muffinhead,” Bad hissed, unnerved, at Sapnap. 

_ These idiots have never seen a day of espionage in their life. _

“We’ll shelve your, ah, strained relationship with the shifter for now,” he continued, eyes alight with amusement. “While I’d love to sit and chat about whatever you feel like, I am a very busy man. We have some matters to discuss, yes?”

“The only ‘matter’ here is you keeping us locked up!” George spoke up despite Bad’s worried shout, “We didn’t  _ do _ anything.”

“On the contrary, you have, and you’ve made no guise of pretending otherwise.” Wilbur snapped, leveling a glare with the hunter, “You are being held here on suspicion of being enemy combatants, sworn to serve Lyve’s sovereign in his service. Hunters don’t often seek refuge at L’Manburg’s borders.”

The trio shared a look between one another, seeming to communicate thousands of words (most of them likely panicked) in just a glance.

It was infuriating.

“You all  _ are  _ hunters, no? Following orders from King Schlatt, first of his name, may his reign be evermore prosperous? Does that ring a bell?” Wilbur leaned forward in his seat, eyebrows arched and tone bitterly sardonic. He hummed, steepling his fingers in front of himself and tapping out a quick, constant drumbeat. “I’d assumed so, but I need an actual confession. It would be— ah, it would expedite this process. Significantly.”

There was a beat of silence, though missing the eye-contact-conversation from the previous, before Sapnap nudged George with his elbow.

“Yes,” George swallowed. His eyes slipped over Wilbur’s before settling on a point just above and to the right of his head. “We are.”

Wilbur nodded, leaning backwards and gesturing to a guard right beside the cell doors. 

“Right then! Thank you for that clarity. Fair warning, this might be a while,” He beamed at them, smile white and gleaming and absolutely, perfectly polished. A politician’s smile, wide and false. One of the hunters— maybe Sapnap— twitched. Wilbur didn’t care. His fingers still on the edge of the melodic arc, then stop.

L’Manburg, his L’Manburg’s prosperity, was his first and foremost priority, nevermind some wayward hunters in the cells beneath the city.

\-----------

Dream woke up— for the love of the Mother, he was starting to resent passing out with danger hanging precariously over his head— in a soft bed. 

This in itself was a shock, because Dream hadn’t really expected to wake up at all. A foreign bed was one of the more impossible places he could’ve awoken, somewhere just below his old bunk back in Lyve, all stiff sheets and military-regulation corners, and somewhere just above the Aether. He woke abruptly, leaping easily from the woozy haziness of deep unconsciousness to the waking world, but didn’t open his eyes. 

He knew better than that. Dream kept his breathing even and unhurried, as if he were still asleep. As more of his senses returned, he took stock of his situation. He was unrestrained, covered by an unimaginably soft blanket, and despite himself he sunk his fingers into the plush. 

The ringing in his eyes had yet to pick up in intensity, still a low thrum that accompanied the residual sensation of suffocating cotton shoved in his head. 

No one was rushing into the room, no one was chasing him down with weapons drawn and hackles raised, so Dream gingerly opened one eye. After a moment, he looked upwards, feeling the air brush on his cheeks and-- wait. His hands shot up to press on his skin, and in a moment of pure panic, he realized that his mask was gone. His breath hitched in his throat— not a sob, definitely not— and he scrambled at his cheekbones futilely before dropping his hands to cover his face. Shield it from view, shield the brand marking him as— 

Dream set his hands back on the bed, fingers tearing into the soft fabric. It seemed to hold less comfort than it did before. His eyes squeezed shut, and he forced himself to take a few breaths. In four, out four, just like he was taught. 

He opened his eyes a few minutes later, breathing evening out into a manageable pattern. When he did, however… 

Holy shit, it wasn’t a cell. Or the afterlife.

He kicked himself. Of course he wasn’t in a cell, no prison would have blankets this soft. And yet this wasn’t a hospital, either. The walls were painted the same blue color as the blanket he held tight in his grip, with a stripe of white paint going horizontal down the center. Rows of ducklings had been painstakingly painted along the crown moulding, shining sunshine yellow in the sun’s fading rays.

He rolled his neck to the side, still keeping himself perfectly still. It was wariness, he could admit, the baseline thrum of anxiety that came from being a wanted man, but his body ached in protest every time he tried to move faster than the barest twitch of muscles. So Dream forced himself to relax and took stock of this room. A shelf was bolted to the wall opposite him, loaded down with trinkets. It held bottles of pastel-spotted shells, paintings of rolling waves with ships disappearing into the horizon, and a frayed length of knotted rope interwoven with dried seaweed.

Huh. Seems like whoever lived here was a— swimmer, maybe a sailor, Dream’s head spun too quickly for him to analyze. Taking a look to his left, he noted the two windows on the wall, sunlight filtering through and cascading onto his bed. 

He lunged, flopped his hand a few inches to one side and hit wood. Pain lanced up his arm and he cursed. More slowly this time, he turned over and spotted a water glass and a book stacked on a nightstand, along with an unlit, partially melted candle. 

It’s been a few minutes since he woke up, and adrenaline resurged through his veins, filling him with the urge to move, move, move. It’s easy to forget in the all-encompassing warmth of this room, where he felt— not safe, but at peace. Whoever put him here has made a mistake. He was a hunter for Void’s sake, he had the brand of the fucking King on his face, he needed to run before they came back.

Panic evaporated any leftover cozy drowsiness this room evokes in him like a desert puddle. Dream swung his leg off of the side of the bed, taking a tentative step with his left, wrapped in pristine white bandages. He wedged his good arm under his torso, frantically trying to push himself off the bed— oh  _ STARS. _

White hot pain coursed through his leg and it took all Dream’s self-control not to cry out. As it was, his traitorous leg chose that moment to give out on him. The nice little ducks whirled at the edges of his vision, and he braced himself for an unforgiving fall.

“Careful,” someone laughed, their voice a deep honeyed warmth. Someone— something, a flexible net of white magic— had caught him. Dream’s eyes trailed across the floor, towards a person in black leather boots standing in the doorway. “Woul-- wan-- leg to get more --- up than it already--.”

Dream flung himself out of reach of the magic, untangling himself from its familiar strands. He scrambled to his knees, hands held protectively before his face and neck. He glared up at the (very tall) newcomer, eyes flinty. 

Standing in front of him, hands extended carefully out from their sides, was a person dressed in the same blue and white uniform all the soldiers here seemed to wear. They looked down at Dream from behind black-tinted glasses. Despite how thick the lenses appeared to be, Dream could sense a glowing white light from the person’s eyes.

“What--” he croaked, flinching at how raspy he sounded, “who th’ fuck are you.” 

His words were slurred, meaning sometime during his unconsciousness he’d been fed a regeneration potion, meaning, oh Mother above, he had been taken to a Stars-damned  _ medic _ . One who had most likely seen the brand on his cheek. There wasn’t a soul for a thousand chunks out who didn’t know what it meant.

They proceeded to say… something, but it was too soft. He couldn’t hear it. The bells rang too damn loud in the back of his head, and Dream shook it in a futile effort to clear the ringing.

The person— the soldier, it was clear in their bearing, the easy confidence of their stance— paused, clearly taking his movement for a denial. They started again, this time speaking louder. 

“You -- call me Eret,” they crouched down, words still difficult to discern. Slowly, they reached out to Dream, hand hovering as an invitation. “May -- know yours?”

Dream’s instincts locked themselves into a battle against one another. One half screamed at him not to trust this stranger, but the other was humming in tune with the stranger’s magic pull. 

It would be so easy to accept the help, to give in to the strings of the other’s aura that practically sung to him, but he simply glanced between the hand and the sunglasses on ‘Eret’s face. 

“Dream,” he said, wincing at the ache in his throat. Words rose unbidden, pooled bitter in his mouth, but he forced them back down. Name, rank and regiment number; that’s all he was going to give. 

“Dream,” Eret repeated back, pulling their hand into their cloak. “-- You need ---- getting back up?”

“I’m fine,” Dream snapped, pulling himself to his feet. When he’s standing again, leaning more than a touch of his body weight against the mattress, he’s breathing hard.

“You’ve been --- for quite some time,” Eret didn’t comment on his struggle, adjusting their glasses and speaking even clearer than before. 

“Have you--” There was a sharp pain in Dream’s chest at the way he spoke, and he wrapped his arm around his torso quickly. 

“Niki said you --- broken ribs, along with --- leg of yours,” Eret gestured to their torso, then to their left leg. Dream followed their movement carefully, nodding along, but didn’t comment. 

“Now, Wilbur --- generous by letting --- here,” they swept a hand across the room, and Dream nodded again, looking up with a questioning expression.

“Wilbur?” he sounded a bit more subdued, a bit louder, most likely because of Eret’s presence, the familiarity settling into his own magic. 

“He, my ---  _ kinsfolk _ , is --- President of this --- nation,” Eret used the term like nothing, but Dream latched onto the use of it like a lifeline. 

_ Kinsfolk _ . The term sparked gauzy memories of hearth and home, warm bread and soup. A term that was used between born mages and the occasional learned mage from before the king began his hunting of their kind. He hadn’t heard it since he left home.

“These people,” he knew he was being too loud by how the words feel in his throat, but Dream just relished in the fact that he could hear his own voice, “they-- are they okay with us?” He gestured to himself and Eret. 

“If you ---- to the anthem, you’d know ----- is a place of freedom,” Eret smiled reassuringly, “you are --- my protection, as well. Until ---- back --- feet.” 

Well, you didn’t need to tell him twice. Dream slowly sunk back into the embrace of his sheets, feeling utterly exhausted.

“History has its eyes on you, my kinsfolk,” Eret pulled their glasses off. Dream looked into their blinding white gaze for the first time, and despite his still unknown surroundings, felt safe. “You’re --- first outsider we’ve --- in a while.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayup boys!! hope you enjoyed this chapter :] bcuz i, for one, did. both of us did tbh its a fun chapter!! did u catch all the bits and pieces :eyes: i wonderrrrr 
> 
> ooooo you want to leave feedback so bad ooooooooo
> 
> can you tell we literally just came up with schlatt's kingdom's name. worldbuilding is a deeply rewarding activity that we enjoy very much. 
> 
> if anyone has specific criticisms on how we wrote dream (the hearing loss specifically) PLEASE comment or let us know because we want to do our best with that :]


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